


Someday, Somewhere - Anywhere, Unfailingly

by ValiantBarnes (Cimila)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Aromantic Character, Bartender Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, F/M, Genderqueer Character, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Lawyer Hux, M/M, Marking, Mental Health Issues, Misunderstandings, Multi, Past Violence, Possessive Behavior, Rough Sex, Self-Worth Issues, Swearing, Trans Male Character, anger issues, sex in inappropriate places
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-11 14:06:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 45,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7055662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cimila/pseuds/ValiantBarnes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the second time in his life, Ben packs up and starts again. It goes... surprisingly well, considering the wreck his life's been. He even manages (somehow) to expand his group of friends from one (a very, <i>very</i> long suffering Phasma) to, okay, two. But Finn's cheerful enough to count for at least three people. There are drawbacks, of course - Ben wouldn't recognise it as his life it there weren't. </p><p>First, he's in the same city as his parents for the first time in fifteen years. </p><p>Second, Hux. That bastard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Someday, Somewhere - Anywhere, Unfailingly

**Author's Note:**

> I am so excited that the end of the inaugural Kylux Big Bang is finally here!! Are you excited???? I hope so!!!
> 
> Twenty billion thanks to the Mods for being their awesome selves and facilitating everything, and being kind and wonderful people. And thanks to everyone who made the chats (what few I was able to attend) really fun.
> 
> BUT INFINITE THANKS TO MY AMAZING ARTIST - CHOUJIINATOR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! <3 <3 <3
> 
> Their work is A+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++∞, and I literally screamed when I saw it. (I am still screaming, as I write this, because holy shit what beauty)
> 
> Also the title of this is from a Pablo Neruda poem (because I'm clearly cleverly original), which is this: 
> 
>  
> 
> _Someday, somewhere - anywhere, unfailingly, you'll find yourself, and that, and only that, can be the happiest or bitterest hour of your life._

Ben moves clear across the country for the second time, starting a whole new life fucking _again_ , when he’s twenty nine. It’s almost more of a pain in arse than the first time he did it. Almost, because this time he’s an adult, with a savings account, a job and flat waiting for him. Almost, because last time he hadn’t had to worry about anything more than a backpack. This time he’s got _things_. Boxes and boxes of crap that he doesn’t really need, but doesn’t want to get rid of. And furniture. He might be starting again, technically, but it’s nothing like last time.

Even though he spent fifteen minutes bitching to Phasma over the phone about what a pain in the ass packing was, he’s grateful that he’s had a stable enough life over the past few years that he’s been able to accumulate the trappings of a ‘normal’ life. Living out of a single, ratty backpack for years is about as much fun as it sounds.

He finds the backpack, faded sharpie mostly blending into the dirt stained canvas fabric, as he’s cleaning out his wardrobe. It survives the purge, somehow, even though he’d meant to throw it out. Instead, it’s full of food and sitting in the passenger seat of his car, sustaining him through the long, soul sucking drive from Seattle to New York. Crossing from one side of the country to the other takes less time than he remembers. Then again, he hitchhiked his way across when he was fifteen, and the experiences are incomparable.

The new apartment looks about the same as every new apartment he’s ever had. Empty. Lonely. Less cockroaches this time. Ben thinks about the life he left behind as little as possible, would prefer to ignore that he’d existed before the age of fifteen, but he can’t help it, sometimes. Whenever he finds a new place to live, he thinks of the warm, noisy home of his childhood. Music in the background, laughter echoing down the hallways. For half a second, he imagines getting back in the car and driving to where he grew up. It’s close, now.

The impulse is gone by the time Phasma comes through the door after him, putting down the last of the boxes. It never takes long for Ben to remember exactly why he left, to abandon all thoughts of his family and childhood. He’s better off without those memories, represses for a fucking reason. Phasma body checks him against the wall when they’re walking out to start on the furniture and, as he chases after her, Ben willfully and happily forgets all the memories that moving stirred up.

“Ready for work tomorrow?” She asks, both of them standing over the sink as they eat well earned pizza, too lazy to go through his boxes and find plates. It’s amazing pizza, so it takes Ben a second to reply.

“Hear my boss is a real bitch.” He deadpans, and she rolls her eyes.

“I heard my new employee is a raging asshole.” Ben grins, nodding.

“Good thing you love him.” She makes a noncommittal noise, and Ben knocks against her side. Predictably, she doesn’t budge an inch, just keeps eating.

“Thanks.” He scoffs, grabbing another slice. Ben pauses, then, and looks at her. He says it again, this time with enough sincerity to make them both uncomfortable, but it needs to be said.

“Your furniture wasn’t that heavy.” She says around a mouthful, and Ben shakes his head.

“I mean for being here. And being my friend.” Phasma rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.

“I would joke that no one else would put up with you, but you’d take me seriously.”

“Thank you for resisting the urge to lecture me about my self esteem, I know it must’ve been hard.” She rubs a hand covered in pizza grease over his face in retaliation, easily avoiding his attempt to shove the slice he’s eating down her shirt. She’s got the advantage of height and strength, so Ben ends up with that particular slice shoved in his mouth.

It’s a good night.

 

 

Ben wakes up just before five the next morning when one of his new neighbours slams their door too fucking loud. He shuffles to the surprisingly clean bathroom; only realises that his towels are boxed up in the living room somewhere when he steps out onto freezing tile instead of the old, soft bath mat he’d bought a couple of years ago. Ben is not really a morning person.

He drips dry in the shower for a while, shivering in the pre-dawn cold, and eventually pads through his new home to the boxes taunting him in one corner. He barely gets through two boxes before he declares the towel search futile and grabs for the box with his clothes, using a shirt to dry off. He would’ve tried to find an older, more worn shirt to use, except all his shirts are old and worn. If he cared enough, he’d probably need at least two of his almost threadbare shirts to dry off properly, not including what it would take to dry his hair.

Ben decidedly doesn’t care that much; if he did, he would have kept looking for his towels. Or labelled the boxes. He leaves the house with his shirt, jeans and jacket partially sticking to his still damp body, wet hair plastered against his face and neck, occasionally sending drops of cool water across his skin to wet the collar of his shirt.

Less than half a block away there’s a hole in the wall cafe which his phone assures him will serve him at five forty in the morning, perhaps even with decent coffee. The place is empty apart from himself and the barista, and if he hadn’t already known how awful he looked first thing in the morning, he would have known it from the way the barista stared. From the moment they’d looked up from the book they’d been reading, hazel eyes had done their best to bore a hole through the side of his skull. All in all, not the best start to his first full day on the east coast since he was fifteen, but it sure as hell beats his first day on the west coast.

He spends the walk back to his apartment thinking about his past, unfortunately. Half the things he sees in the street spark memories, though Ben can’t remember ever being in this part of New York. Back in the new apartment, Ben decides to attribute the sudden cascade of long forgotten memories to being in the same state as his family for the first time in years, nothing more. It doesn’t mean he has to dwell. He’s an adult, a mostly functional one now - no thanks to himself, to be honest - and he doesn’t need to think about his past. He _refuses_ to. Finally, a use for his stubborn nature.

So Ben drinks his coffee, leaves memories long since withered where they are, and makes a shopping list.

 

 

His first shift at the bar is easy, thankfully. Tuesday afternoon and night, only a couple of regulars. Older guys, the type of aging men who’ll likely die of liver failure, who have a permanent claim on this barstool or that table, who have a good rapport with the staff of whatever establishment they frequent. He spends most of the afternoon chatting to them, learning their names and whatever part of their histories they feel like sharing. They call him Kylo, the way everyone has since he fucked up saying the name ‘Kyle’ the first time he hitchhiked.

The only person who knows his real name is Phasma, and she never uses it. Ben wouldn’t want her to. Honestly, it’s been long enough that he should think of himself as Kylo, but it’s the one obstacle he’s never been able to overcome. In his mind still, forever, he’s Ben. It’s a victory against all the ghosts trying to haunt him each time he fails to react to the name when he hears it. It’s been years since he so much as twitched at the once familiar syllables.

Finn shows him the ropes, introduces him to all the regulars with a smile that appears to be infectious. Ben’s always had a good memory for names and faces, so by the time Finn’s shift is over, they’re both confident that the bar’s not going to crash and burn around his ears in the hour he’s alone. It doesn’t take long for the older men to take a shine to him (bitter, bitter thoughts swirl through his mind, but he ignores them with the ease of long practice), and by the time Phasma arrives, Ben’s confident enough to be joking with them.

It’s a different working environment to what he’s been used to, but he likes it. How casual it is, the low stress atmosphere. It seems almost impossible that the bar should feel so relaxed, and yet run so smoothly, but _The Finalizer_ is run by Phasma, and Ben firmly believes that she can do anything.

“How’re they treating you?” She asks loudly, instead of greeting him, and there’s a commotion as the people closest to the bar attempt to speak at once. Generally positive sentiment, except for one grouchy voice, just after the first wave of noise dies down.

“He’s a jackass.” It’s Monty, who’s about ninety in the shade, but the smile on his face gentles the insult, and Ben smiles back.

“Monty’s got you pegged, Kylo.” She grins, and Ben rolls his eyes.

“It’s like there’s a neon sign, I don’t know what to do.” He quips back, smiling at the wave of laughter from the bar patrons, moving easily around Phasma. They’re comfortable in each others space, a product of their long friendship, and of the long months they once worked together. It’s much more relaxing than sharing the small space with Finn. Sure, the man’s almost a literal ray of sunshine, but Ben doesn’t know him well enough to be comfortable with the other man so close to him.

It’d caused some awkward moments during their shared shift, but Finn didn’t take it to heart. Didn’t say anything, either, which Ben appreciated. It might take a while, but eventually he’ll be as comfortable with Finn as he is with Phasma. Well, probably not. He doesn’t imagine ever being as comfortable, as relaxed, around anyone who isn’t Phasma. It’d been a surprise, to realise that they were such good friends. Best friends, even.

It’s the only reason that Ben can comprehend as to how they’ve stayed in contact over the years, something of a miracle given Ben's shit social skills and generally fucked life. They’d met up once or twice since SoCal, when Phasma’s career took her to wherever the wind had blown Ben to, but meeting up in person hadn’t been necessary for their continued friendship. Sometimes Ben thinks that the only reason they stayed friends was because Phasma _didn’t_ have to be around him. Phone calls had kept their friendship alive and well; Ben could probably recite Phasma’s old landline number in his sleep.

They’d had a long talk a couple of years ago, just after Phasma retired from the professional fighting circuit, and shortly before she bought _The Finalizer_. Ben’d been curled up in his first proper apartment, nest of blankets where a bed should have been, Phasma in the same brownstone she’d lived in since her Great Aunt died. They’d talked shit for hours before Phasma had offered to help if he ever decided to move to New York. She’d known how unstable his life was – how unstable he was – and had still always tried to help him out, however she could. Ben had ignored the idea at first – why would he _ever_ go back to New York? But the idea had grown roots in the back of his mind.

So one day he’d been talking to Phasma, and complaining about how much he hated Seattle, and before he’d even known what he was saying, he was asking her if she knew of any cheap apartments near her.

As usual for Phasma, she’d gone above and beyond. He’d thought that she’d let him crash on her couch until he found a place, maybe even use her lounge room as storage until then. Instead, she’d gone apartment hunting, sending him the details of the best, even organising a phone meeting with his prospective landlord for him. And then, after all that, she’d casually informed him that she had a job waiting for him, as well. Like it was no big deal, like it’s something all friends did. He knows it’s not - she’s just amazing. Better than he deserves, that’s for sure.

Ben knows he’s never done a single thing good enough to deserve having Phasma as a friend, and is forever grateful that she’d decided to befriend him. What she saw in the angry, out of control man-child that he’d been, Ben would never know, but he’s thankful for it. She’s his oldest friend; his only friend. They don’t talk about it often, all the shit they went through - all the shit Ben went through, Phasma wading in after him in order to pull him out, or keep his head above water if she couldn’t.

And sometimes she has this look on her face - like now, when he’s doing nothing particularly special, just pouring another beer for Armand - and it blows him away. Because she looks proud. As though the fact that he’s not long since dead in a gutter somewhere isn’t almost entirely her doing, like he’s ever done anything to be proud of. He’s told her this, several times, but she ignores him.

She actually says it, when they’re locking up for the night, slings an arm around his shoulder and draws him into a hug. Ben doesn’t know how to deal with it, now that the words are out, apart from rolling his eyes and shaking his head, denying that he’s anything to be proud of, loudly.

Regardless of what he says, he’s still turning her words over in his head later that night, staring at his ceiling instead of sleeping. _‘Proud of you,’_ such a small thing, yet he feels so warm he might as well be burning up. Ben can’t remember anyone ever telling him that they were proud of him, or anything he’d ever been apart of. He takes her words, hoards them deep within his heart, and lets the feelings they evoke scare away his demons.

 

 

“So, I walk into this bar, and it is _rough_. Like, I was barely twenty one, I should have been in a club somewhere for my first, proper drink, and instead I’m in a place that barely glanced at my i.d, with a back corner filled with rowdy, semi-aggressive drunk white guys, and let me tell you, the rest of the bar looked just as unappealing.” Ben’d expected it to take weeks before he became even slightly comfortable around Finn, probably months. Instead, the perpetually smiling younger man wormed his way under Ben's thick, thick skin in about a week. There’s just something about him that sets Ben at ease, that makes him relax, albeit cautiously. Maybe it’d be different if they’d met somewhere else, but in Phasma’s bar Ben feels almost as safe as he would were she actually there.

So now they talk. It’s good. Fun. Finn likes to talk, and doesn’t mind if Ben doesn’t do much more than listen and, astonishingly for anyone who knows him, smile. Sometimes Ben will chime in with his own tale, but he doesn’t have very many that are fun to listen to.

“And Slip’s not even there. He was the one who wanted to go, try and make friends with the guys from First Order, and he’s not there. At this point I’d been going to First Order for about a year and a half, maybe a bit longer, but I didn’t really know anybody apart from Phasma, and she’d been gone for a couple of months by the time I walked into this bar.” First Order was the gym Phasma had worked at, and where she’d met Finn. There were several reasons she’d stopped working there, and most of them had to do with the unfriendly, unhealthy environment the gym fostered.

“So I recognise the group from the gym, but no one acknowledges me, and I don’t even try to go over there. Like, the most excruciatingly awkward eye contact you’ve ever had in your life, before I turn to the bar and get a beer.”

“You don’t like beer.” Ben can’t help but point out, and Finn laughs, shaking his head.

“I was nervous. And a kid.” Ben smiles at Finn, shaking his head.

“You’re still a kid, Kid.” Finn pokes his tongue out, and throws a tea towel at him.

“Anyway, I’ve just got my beer, and I’m leaning against the bar, when two neo-nazis start harassing this kid. They look nowhere near old enough to be in any sort of bar, let alone this one, and I’m there thinking ‘ _I’ve got to do something, and no one else is going to say anything_.’ So I walk over there-”

“Over to the neo-nazis?”

“I didn’t know they were neo-nazis at the time!” He protests, like he would’ve made a different decision if he’d known they were. Ben knows the truth, though, which is that Finn’s an amazingly brave, kind human being, who makes Ben look like shit just by existing. It’s not actually a hard task, making Ben look bad - he does most of it by himself, after all - but Finn’s head and shoulders above most people the older man’s ever met. He’s just _good_ in a way that Ben knows is so, so rare.

“How’d you find out?”

“Wait, wait, you’re skipping ahead. So I’m walking over, and I don’t know what I’m going to do. Should I just call out, or step in between them and this kid, or what? I knew I’d have to make a choice, soon, because I’m almost there, when one of them grabs for the kid, and I’m about to jump in, when this kid drops them. Both of them. Takes about ten seconds, and they’re both laid out on the bar floor. I’m in shock. This kid looks like they’d blow away in a strong wind, so I don’t think anybody was expecting what happened. Like, the entire bar’s gone silent.

“And then they look up at me, and glare. And they say, ‘ _what, you thought I couldn’t take care of myself, just because I’m female,_ ’ and they look like they’re about to punch me just on principle. And I am shitting myself, because as much as I don’t want to fight anyone, I wanted even less to get the shit kicked out of me by someone who may or may not have been a tall fourteen year old, in front of the First Order crew.” Ben reaches up to the top shelf of the bar, which is too high for Finn to reach without a stool, and starts to remove the bottles so he can clean properly.

“How old were they actually?”

“Seventeen. Now, I’m sure that there’s some combination of words which could save me, but I can’t think of anything to say except, ‘ _a woman taught me to fight._ ’ Because Phasma did, and I would never say someone couldn’t fight because they’re female. And, miraculously, this is the exact right thing to say. We both relax, and I’m about to introduce myself, when the drunk white guys in the corner head over to us, looking angry as fuck. I look down, and one of the dudes groaning on the floor has the S.S insignia on his jacket, and the leader of this pack of white dudes has a swastika tattooed on his forehead. A fucking swastika. On his _face_.” Finn sounds disgusted, and Ben grimaces in agreement. That’s fucked up.

“No way am I sticking around for this neo-nazi, kkk bullshit, so I grab this kids hand and I just fucking run. Straight out the bar. We’re both running, and I’ve still got a hold of their hand, but I could not have let go if you paid me.”

“Cute.” Ben teases, and Finn rolls his eyes, even as he flushes a little bit.

“Fuck off. This kid leads me through all these back streets, and I swear we were running fast enough to outstrip Usain Bolt, but these fuckers are keeping up, somehow. And then, miraculously, I realise I know where we are. So I pull the pair of us one way, and the kid’s spitting tacks, insisting we have to go the other way. But I take advantage of the fact that I’m about twice their size, and pull them down this street. Turns out to be a dead end, and the kid looks like they want to punch me again. We can hear them getting closer, and the kid’s looking around for a way out.”

“You can stop with the mystery, by the way, I know you’re talking about Rey. Why the dead end?”

Finn grins wide, like he’s delighted Ben asked. Hell, maybe he is. He always seems genuinely pleased whenever Ben contributes to their conversation with actual words.

“I’m knocking on one of the doors, right, and _Rey_ ,” Finn stresses the name, making a face like Ben’s ruined his fun, even though the segue to this story had literally been ‘ _you’ll never guess how I met Rey._ ’ “shapes up like they’re willing to take on six neo-nazis with or without my help.” Rey, for the uninitiated, is one of Finn’s best friends, along with a man named Poe. In what Ben now knows was a show of remarkable restraint, Finn waited until his second shift to start bombarding Ben with stories of his two best friends. And their dog. Poe’s dog, technically, but from the way Finn talks there might be some sort of weird, three way, co-ownership thing going on.

“From what you’ve told me, they’d probably win.” Ben points out, to which Finn nods.

“Absolutely; you’ve not seen anything as amazing as Rey fighting. But they don’t have to because just as the neo-nazi’s round the corner, the door I’m knocking on opens.” Finn pauses, eyeing Ben expectantly, and the taller man rolls his eyes, before asking the question his new friend’s looking for.

“Who answered the door?”

“Phasma.”

And Ben laughs, loud and hard enough that he almost knocks a bottle off the counter when he leans against the bar to keep himself upright. The laugh only lasts for a few moments, but Finn’s grinning wide enough that Ben’s cheeks ache in sympathy. He looks like hearing Ben laugh is a miracle - which, to be honest, almost is.

“All I say is ‘ _help, neo-nazi’s_ ’ and she’s stepping out of the doorway and into the street. She calls out, first, tells them to fuck off, but…”

“They don’t listen.”

“Hell no.”

“Was she wearing those slippers she likes?”

“Nah, it was before the bunny slippers. These ones were frogs.”

“Nice. How long’d it take?”

“Thirty seconds, max. One punch and the leader’s out cold, and his friend only barely catches him. She headbutts the guy who tries to rush her, and he drops too. Then it’s almost even numbers, and they run off when she takes a step towards them, dragging their wounded as they flee. It was a bit pathetic, to be honest.”

“And that’s how you met Rey.”

“Yep. Introduced ourselves after Phasma invited us in, and we’ve been best friends ever since.” Finn’s grinning, but there’s something in his voice that’s a bit wistful. Ben doesn’t pry, just lets Finn keep talking.

“After that I changed gyms, joined Phasma over at Yoda’s. That’s where I met Poe.”

“Who’s your other best friend.” Ben’s already heard this story; Phasma had told it, gleefully. Poe had accidentally locked himself into one of the supply closets at the back of the gym. The door locks automatically, no handle on the inside, so it usually has tape over the locking mechanism. Only, the tape fell off, and Poe was trapped. Phone in his locker, all he could do was wait until someone went to see why he never came back. Poe didn’t manage to warn Finn with enough time, and the door clicked shut behind him.

Finn’d been sent to grab an extra skipping rope, and was similarly without his phone. They were stuck in the cupboard for ten minutes before someone came along, and have been teased mercilessly since. Finn doesn’t seem to mind, though, happy enough with the firm friendship he’d found. Phasma’d finished the story by letting Ben know that they’d replaced the door handle with something that was less likely to trap unsuspecting people into rom-com situations.

“Yeah.” Finn kind of sighs the word, and that’s when Ben realises.

“You’re in love with them. Rey and Poe.”

“Yep.” Finn doesn’t even think about denying it.

“They’re dating each other, though, so…” Finn trails off, looking sad, and Ben wants to track down Rey and Poe and shake some sense into them. It’s an oddly protective urge, rather than the usual violent impulses he gets, so he doesn’t try to stifle it. It feels weird, to instinctively want to help someone other than Phasma, but a good weird. It’s almost like he’s a regular person, who hasn’t proven himself to be so dangerous that he’s surprised Phasma employed him.

His entire first week working at _The Finalizer_ can be summed up like that - weird, but good. Peaceful. Distinctly not-violent. Different from the rough bars the dark haired man’s been working at since before he was legal. Weird, but good.

“That sucks. If you need to talk… you see me basically every day, so.” The words feel awkward, forced for all that he’s sincere. But his friendship with Finn is different from his friendship with Phasma. The younger man does better with things out in the open, and he’s very physical, as well. Ben’s not so good at being touched casually, but he’s trying with the other thing. Takes two to tango, after all, and he doesn’t want to fuck up the new friendship he’s made.

“Thanks Kylo. That means a lot.” Finn slowly reaches out across the space Ben carefully maintains between them, making sure the taller man sees his hand, and gives him a soft pat on his shoulder. Finn’s trying, too. Had it been anyone else, he’d probably have pulled them into a hug. Ben smiles down at Finn, who grins back, and then proceeds to accept Ben's offer to listen.

He spends the rest of his shift waxing poetic about Poe and Rey, who he calls about a hundred different pet names over the course of the hours. The most popular are Buttercup and Sunflower. It makes Ben realise that, before, Finn had only been speaking about his two best friends casually. It’s full on, but worth it for the way it cheers the younger man up. By the time Finn knocks off, Ben’s still not quite sure who’s Sunflower and who’s Buttercup, but he’s sure he’ll figure it out eventually.

Hopefully.

 

 

By the end of his first fortnight living in New York City, working at the bar, Ben’s settled into an easy routine. Weekend shifts are more hectic than he’d have expected, but he adapts quickly enough. The last time he was this happy to go to work was when he was working with Phasma for the first time, about a decade ago now. Ben even acquires the habit of stopping in at the hole in the wall cafe. He usually remembers to make sure he doesn’t look completely wild when he goes in, though the barista of indeterminate gender never really stops side-eyeing him.

Everything’s going well. He’d even go as far to say that things were good. It was a rare feeling, for Ben, and he was on the lookout for anything that could disturb his new found peace.

It happens on a Wednesday evening, and what happens is this:

Ben’s alone at the bar, Phasma out to grab them both something to eat because Ben’d forgotten his dinner at home and she’d decided that was a good enough reason to abandon her own microwavable meal and treat them both to something nice. Unsurprisingly, she’d refused to take the money Ben’d tried to give her to cover his half of whatever she was getting.

He’s officially been working at _The Finalizer_ for long enough that the regulars are starting to tell him the really good stories, the type of stories which are memorable enough that Ben’d probably recount them to his friends - if he had any friends other than Finn and Phasma, both of whom likely knew the tales already.

Armand’s the first one to move from general bar talk into the story of how his wife, Majo, left him for a woman in 1968. He’s a remarkably good story teller, and Ben’s honestly got no idea how the story’s going to end. Armand circa 1968 seems completely heartbroken, but the old man in front of him doesn’t sound as though the story has a bad ending. Then again, it’s been almost half a century since it happened, so who knows? If Ben were sitting down, he’d be on the edge of his seat.

Before Armand can finish, the bell over the door jingles cheerily, and the older man waves Ben away so he can do his job. Polite of him. The man who’d just walked in doesn’t seem to fit with the regular Wednesday crowd of aging bodies, wearing everything from old suits to work uniforms to fluorescent construction gear. This man's suit looks new, fashionable even, and his hair is combed and gelled neatly. Looks like the type of person Ben would have made fun of, once. But despite being an asshole, he’s not one to judge a person for their appearance, even if the redhead is wearing a look of absolute disdain on his face.

He walks up to the bar, leans against it, and Ben's attempt to capture Finn’s kind, cheerful nature when presented with a new customer falls away at the derisive once over the man gives him. The man's eyes linger on the few stick and pokes littered around the top of Ben's forearms, on his scarred knuckles, and he feels his usual vitriolic nature bubble to the surface at being judged.

“What can I get you?” He attempts to keep his face impassive, because this is Phasma’s bar, and he’s not going to get into it with a snooty customer. The man lifts his oddly coloured eyes from where Ben's worn hands are resting against the bar, linger on where his shirt stretches over his broad shoulders, clearly old and worn, before he’s looking into Ben’s face. He can feel how tight the skin around his eyes is, knows he’s doing a shit job of keeping anger off his face.

The man frowns at him, and Ben frowns back automatically. Or, frowns back more than he had been already.

“Is Phasma here?” He asks, instead of answering Ben's question.

“No.”

“Do you know when she’ll be back?” Ben feels the temptation to say no, to shoo the man out of the bar, out of a place he’s quickly come to consider a safe space. He doesn’t, for several reasons, the main one being Phasma.

“Soon.” All in all, not much better than a flat no, but at least he wasn’t aggressive about it.

“In that case, I’ll have an Old Fashioned.” He doesn’t say please, makes it sound like an order, and Ben's already low estimation of the man falls further. And people say Ben’s rude; at least he’s always polite to service staff, and doesn’t judge people on the way they look. Ben doesn’t slam the drink down on the bar, but only because he might’ve accidentally shattered the glass, rather than any desire to be the bigger man. Instead, he slides it over on a napkin, takes the money without a word, and turns back to Armand.

Phasma arrives back, dinner in hand, as the Mexican-American man is pulling out his wallet to show him family photos. She collects the red-haired man from the bar, takes him into the back room, while Ben’s looking at photos of Armand, his wife Majo, and her lover Angelica, along with photos of Armand and Majos four children, and numerous grandchildren. Majo’d come back in January of 1969, with Angelica, and the three of them had talked through their situation and problems like adults. Ben was aware that that was the recommended method of sorting out your problems - open communication, a willingness to listen - but he can’t remember anyone actually _doing it_.

But all three of them were still happy, decades later, so Ben guesses that talking things out does actually work. It’s never worked out for Ben, but he’s happy it worked out for someone.

Armand’s still trying to shove too many family photos back into the too small space available in his wallet when the red-haired man emerges from the back room and disappears out the front door. He didn’t look particularly happy. In fact, he looked a tad miserable and Ben happily wallows in schadenfreude as he hands the bar over to Phasma and sits in the back room eating his pad thai.

He doesn’t think much of the well presented man after that, sure he’s not going to see him again.

 

 

He finishes unpacking everything. It took a couple of weeks, but the apartment looks less lonely, now. Of course, he hasn’t put away half of his unboxed shit yet, so it looks less like an apartment and more like a dump. Ben knows he needs to start putting stuff away, and he does try. He gets through approximately a box and a half of things before he hits a snag. You see, he hadn’t taken much time to go through his things, before he’d left Seattle. He’d been in a bit of a hurry, throwing his things in boxes, wanting to get out of the city as fast as fucking possible.

He’d emptied his draws, straight into boxes. Clearly he shouldn’t have been so thorough. Should have left some things in that shithole of an apartment.

There’s a switchblade hidden in an old, rolled up shirt. He hadn’t even known he still had it. He’s constantly surprised by the things he’d accidentally kept, things he’d thought he’d gotten rid of years ago. The knife should have been in an evidence bag, somewhere. Instead it’s in Ben’s hands, cushioned by the shirt. There’s still blood crusted on the blade, the hilt. On the shirt.

The blood on the collar of the shirt’s his; the rest of it isn’t.

Ben wraps it up tight again, shoves it in the back of one of his draws, tries not to think about it. Tries not to think about the last time he’d done the exact same thing. Tries not to think about anything, period. Fails. Categorically.

He wakes up from what feels like a nightmare pulled from some hellscape, sweating and panicking. It takes him hours to calm down, to steady his breathing and his thoughts, because as hellish as it had been, it was all too real - memories make the worst of all nightmares. Ben doesn’t go back to sleep that night, or the next.

It takes half a week before he’s able to sleep through the night again, every sound waking him up and setting his heart racing, like he hasn’t had years of sleeping safely behind locked doors. The parade of old and older memories swirl through his dreams until he jerks awake. There’s never any confusion about where he is, when he wakes up. He hasn’t had that luxury since he was a small child. He remembers that it was almost peaceful, waking up still in a haze of sleep, the lines between reality and sleep blurred.

He remembers it as dangerous, too.

He regains his regular sleeping pattern through sheer force of will. He still wakes up when his next door neighbour slams their door at five in the morning, but he just rolls over and goes back to sleep, like he’s done most days since he arrived.

He’s glad when he gets back to his normal sleeping pattern, because he’s not as young as he used to be, and the sleep deprivation put him more on edge than he usually was. The brief period of hyper awareness and tension leads to him breaking three of his already mismatched plates, and one of the glasses at the bar. It’s only after that, after breaking something that’s not his - something that Phasma will have to replace - that he’s able to shove his memories back where they belong; firmly in the past.

Of course, it’s during the short period of worse than usual night terrors that the crisp, sneering, judgemental fuck returns to the bar.

 

 

The man's name, Ben unfortunately comes to learn, is Hux. He knows it because Phasma says it, cheerfully, when she spots him. He’s unsurprised to find that Hux is a lawyer, is very surprised to find that he’s also a long time friend of Phasma’s. His suit’s always perfectly pressed, no matter the time of day he comes into the bar.

He gets an Old Fashioned, each time. Doesn’t say please, or thank you. Ever.

Luckily, Phasma’s usually in, and Ben can go back to serving people he doesn’t want to punch in the face.

The fact that Hux has a nice face only makes him want to punch the man more. Luckily, he hides his nice face with one of the most repulsive sneers Ben’s ever seen. He never hangs around the actual bar of _The Finalizer_ for long, just orders a drink and then goes to annoy Phasma. She’s clearly even stronger than Ben gave her credit for, to be able to hang out with _Hux_ for longer than the minute it takes to serve him.

At least his tailored suit pants frame what little arse he has quite nicely; Ben’s trying to look for the silver linings, lately. It’s half working. Mainly he just wonders how tight the man’s belt has to be to stay up over thin hips and no arse. He asks Phasma once, after Hux leaves one evening, and she laughs so hard it’s a miracle she didn’t fall over.

 

 

One time, Phasma’s in the back, doing paperwork, and has given explicit instructions for Ben. Rare, considering she generally trusts him to know how to handle himself and the bar. He wouldn’t complain about it under normal conditions, willing to complete whatever task Phasma’s set him to any specification she asks, but he’s honestly thinking about thanking her when it enables him to do this:

“Is Phasma in?” Hux asks, in that crisp, vaguely British accent. Ben can’t help the grin that stretches his face.

“You can fuck right off.” He’s sure that Hux couldn’t have looked any more shocked, even if Ben had reached across the bar and slapped him instead. He opens his mouth, no doubt to unleash a hellish tirade of superiority against Ben, when the taller man cuts him off.

“Is what Phasma told me to tell anybody who asked for her between now and eight.” Ben’s face isn’t used to smiling too broadly, but he doesn’t try to reign it in. If Hux had somehow been unaware of the mutual state of their dislike prior to this moment (extremely unlikely), he’s just been informed. Hux closes his mouth, squares his shoulders, and sits down on the bar stool.

“Old Fashioned, coming up.” Hux waits until he’s already started to correct him.

“I’d like a Brandy Sour, actually.” What a dick. Ben wants to refuse, wants to give him the Old Fashioned anyway. What he actually does is glare sullenly as he makes the Brandy Sour.

The minutes between seven twenty nine and eight p.m tick past with a devastating slowness. Most of the regulars head out at about quarter past seven to get home in time for dinner, though it doesn’t completely empty the bar on a Monday night. There are still a few people around the edges, and a group chatting quietly in the corner, all of whom receive impeccable service as Ben attempts to avoid Hux’s existence.

It’s become impossible by quarter to eight. The bar’s spotless and everyone’s got fresh drinks. Except Hux. He’s sitting at the bar, still, staring at Ben with an infuriating little smirk on his lips. It shouldn’t look so good on him, but it does. Makes Ben want to try and figure out what colour his eyes are. He kind of misses the aggravating, dismissive attitude, and the twisted scowl. At least then he could pretend he was completely unaware of how attractive Hux was.

Ben’s got a long track record of making stupid decisions, and Hux looks so much like one that he’s ridiculously tempted to try; some sort of Pavlovian response, maybe. Definitely not good judgement. But then, good judgement’s never been his forte.

Thankfully, Hux’s personality is enough to remind Ben how much he does not want to go there. Not that Hux would let him, anyway. He’s made no secret of his utter disdain for Ben, the way he looks down his nose at the taller man every chance he gets. Hux likely thinks he’s much too good for Ben, in his expensive suits and polished shoes. And, fuck, he might be right, but Ben hates the way the man looks down his nose at him, anyway.

“What’ll it be?”

“I’d like a Ramos Gin Fizz.” Ben grits out a smile, thinking of how much he respects Phasma, and how annoyed she’d be if he punched her friend. Actually, he’s got no idea how she’d react. Might be that all she does is correct his form, the way she used to do when bartending was a side job to her fighting career, and Ben had almost broken his thumb on some pricks jaw. She’d be disappointed in him, however, which is enough that Ben doesn’t give in to the exceedingly large temptation.

“You _do_ know how to make it, don’t you?” Hux asks, condescension dripping from every syllable, and Ben takes a deep breath, controlling his temper (another thing Phasma had been instrumental in helping him master, and yet another reason why he should not punch her friend) before moving to the bar fridge.

“Just thinking if we have any cream and eggs.” They do. Unfortunately. And then he gets to work, hyperaware of Hux’s eyes on his every move. Having the man at his back quickly puts Ben on edge, so he turns back to face him as he shakes the stupid fucking drink. And shakes, and keeps shaking.

The urge to throw the drink in his face instead of pouring it in the glass grows the longer Hux watches him. Ben pours the cocktail over the ice, and imagines pouring it over Hux’s perpetually neat hair insead, watching it drip down on his expensive suit, the egg white potentially ruining the jacket. It’s a glorious thought, and he’s able to serve Hux with a genuine, if slightly mean, smile. Hux looks suspicious, like it’s possible that Ben spat in his drink when he wasn’t looking. As though he hadn’t spent the entire time staring at Ben intently, like Ben’d fuck it up if Hux looked away for the slightest moment.

Finally, he takes a sip. It’s almost eight, after all that fucking shaking, so the man should be out of his hair soon. Hux puts the drink back on the counter, and Ben feels the urge to fuck the man draw level with his urge to punch him. It’s a familiar combination for Ben, who’d spent several years fucking whoever he couldn’t fight. The sight of Hux’s lips covered in a slight film of creamy, sticky cocktail is entrancing. Hux licks his lips clean, and Ben wants to lean across the bar and bite those pink lips red.

“Acceptable.” The man reluctantly acquiesces, and Ben smirks, imagining what Hux would look like with his lips smeared with Ben's come, instead. His hair would be falling out of it’s neat, gelled side part, thanks to Ben's hands; lips obscenely swollen. Come on his lips, streaked down his chin, and on his fucking suit too. God, Ben would love to ruin Hux’s clean cut look, get the man dirty. Would he still look so haughty after he’s been taken apart, piece by irritating, fucking piece?

Would he still look at Ben like he’s filthy, like he’s nothing, after Ben fucked the condescension out of him?

He’s the one staring at Hux, now. It’s a different sort of intensity, and Hux almost succeeds in pretending he doesn’t notice at all. His cold eyes give him away, though.

Phasma emerges from the back room before Hux finishes his cocktail, and Ben smiles at her.

“I delivered your message word for word, boss.” She rolls her eyes at him, comes close enough to give the back of his head a love tap, before stealing a sip of Hux’s drink. The lawyer seems to relax at that, oddly enough, and Ben’s happy enough to retreat to the back room and eat the curry he’d brought for dinner.

It takes a while for his low grade arousal to subside, but he’s in the clear by the time his dinner break is over, and Hux is gone by the time he emerges anyway. As usual.

 

 

“I just…” Finn sighs, looking more forlorn than Ben’s seen him since they met. It feels like he’s known the man for longer than just a month and a half. Feels like he’s been in New York for longer, as though when he’d arrived he’d just slipped into a place which had always been waiting for him. He hadn’t needed to carve and claw a nieche for himself to exist in, like he had everywhere else. It was good. Easy. He couldn’t believe he’d almost stayed in Seattle, kept trying to eke out a life surrounded by people he hated and who hated him in turn. It seemed almost surreal now, in the well lit, open space of _The Finalizer_.

He’d even expanded his friend group by one, bringing it up two a grand total of two. And he was on good terms with the regulars. They’re not friends, but they’re friendly, something Ben’s not had a lot of over the years, so it’s almost the same. And now, due to the sudden and unexpected expansion of his social circle, Ben’s become embroiled into something he’d never thought he’d get a chance to experience.

That is, becoming far, _far_ too involved with Finn’s love life.

Between Phasma’s aromanticism and Ben's own inability to connect with people, to want to connect with people, he’d never really thought about people's ‘love lives.’ The only time he’d given it more than a passing thought over the years was when someone was attempting to kick the shit out of him because he’d fucked the wrong person.

Phasma told him he needed to find a hobby, and to stop trying to meddle. Ben ignored her advice, since Phasma herself had many hobbies, as well as a wide and varied social life, yet she also seems to have become embroiled in the saga that was Finn, Sunshine and Buttercup. Also known as Finn, Rey and Poe. Or Finn, Poe and Rey. Ben still hadn’t figured out which endearment went to which person - he’s starting to think Finn switches them around, possibly just to fuck with Ben.

“I’m happy just being friends with them - I don’t need more, and I’d never try to pressure either of them into anything they didn’t want, but I see them together and they’re so happy, so in love, and I…” He trails off, sighing.

“It’s hard.” Ben says, when Finn’s been silent for a bit too long. The man nods, running a hand through his close cropped hair, leaning against the bar.

“Yeah.” Finn’s not willing to tell either of them about his feelings, unwilling to make them feel uncomfortable around him, or jeopardize his friendship with them, or their relationship with each other. He hasn’t said anything, but Ben’s pretty sure what Finn’s really afraid of is telling them, and having nothing change - except that now they pity him.

Phasma always tells Finn to simply _tell them_ , get it all out in the open and go from there. Ben wishes that he could do the same, but he’s intimately aware of what Finn’s feeling. Not the entire situation - their situations were so different as to be incomparable - just the fear of saying something, of reaching out and being turned away. He can still remember the heavy weight of the truth in his gut, how he’d kept it in until it’d started to poison him, until it was too much and he’d had to say something, anything.

He remembers the panic attack that followed, when his words had been dismissed, ignored.

Ben doesn’t want Finn to get to that point, where he has to get it off his chest or else he’ll self-destruct. He doesn’t think Finn would react the same way he did, personalities inherently different, but it’s still not something he wants his friend to ever go through. Unfortunately, he can’t really think of anything else apart from Phasma’s suggestion.

“You want to keep talking about it, or change the subject.” Sometimes Finn needed to talk about it, and sometimes he needed to talk about anything else, to keep his mind away from what he sees as a hopeless situation. These are the times when Ben will try and talk, tell a story or two which he thinks Finn will like. It’s a slow Thursday, and the bar’s already spotless. They’ve done everything they can possibly do, and so they talk.

“Subject change.” Finn decided, firmly, and Ben nods.

“Years ago, just after I first met Phasma,” He starts, and Finn perks up. He never quite lost the hero worship of Phasma, having had posters of her in his room as a teenager, and loves hearing stories about her. Likes hearing stories about Ben, too. The older man never goes further back in his past than when he met Phasma, and rarely tells tales of what he’d done after she’d left SoCal. Finn doesn’t seem to mind, and thankfully doesn’t pry.

“Instead of doing something worthwhile with our night off, we went to a biker bar. I was still a few months away from twenty one, but the only person who actually knew that was Phasma. Everyone we worked with thought I was a year older, and so did the bouncers who looked at my I.D.”

“Wait, should I start checking your I.D? How do I know you’re really as old as you claim? You could be a tall twelve year old, for all I know.” Finn teases, pretending like he was going to try and reach into Ben's back pocket for his wallet. Surprisingly, Ben doesn’t flinch away at all. He’s not sure if it’s because he knows Finn won’t actually touch him anywhere other than his shoulders or arms without explicit permission, or it he’s simply that comfortable around the other man. Maybe both.

“Ha-ha. Do you want to hear this story, or not?” Finn rolls his eyes, leaning back against the bar.

“Phasma doesn’t even get to finish her beer before I’ve decided that I don’t like the way a guy in the bar is looking at - I can’t actually remember if I didn’t like how he was looking at me, or how he was looking at Phasma.” Ben realises, not overly surprised. Honestly, whatever Ben had thought, it’d most likely just been a pretense in order to pick a fight. And by most likely, he means definitely. He’d had so much anger, and no other way to let it out. The anger’s still there, smouldering in his chest, but he knows how to deal with himself, now.

“So I skull my beer, walk over and start in on him. Not a good move.”

“Doesn’t sound too smart, no.”

“This is before Phasma knew how to wrangle me, as well, before she knew she had to, so she’s just sitting at the bar, drinking. I think she thought I was in the toilet. Imagine her surprise when she looks over at the commotion and sees me getting my ass handed to me by three bikers.”

“Man, what the hell did you say to them?”

“I don’t remember that either. I got pretty heavily concussed, it’s a miracle I remember enough to tell this story.” Finn laughs, and it is a bit amusing, now that he thinks about it. But he’s telling this particular story for a reason, and it’s not just to take Finn’s mind off his unrequited love. Well, it is mostly to take Finn’s mind off it, but Ben’s sure he can think of a second reason by the time he finishes the tale. Hopefully.

“If you ask her, she’ll tell you that she took her time finishing her beer, before heading over. That’s a lie; it was still three quarters full when she smashed it over one of their heads, and I know that because most of the beer soaked into my shirt. Although, I do believe that she took her time walking over. She kicked the guy holding me in the groin, grabs a handful of my hair and tugs me out of the bar.”

“Did they follow you?” Finn’s dark eyes are wide, concerned, as though he could somehow stop what had already happened.

“No.” He gives Finn a moment to be relieved before he continues.

“They’d already broken my nose, cracked a rib and given me a concussion - and they weren’t too keen to try and chase after Phasma, given that she’d knocked one unconscious, and possibly prevented the other from ever fathering children.”

“You’re lucky Phasma was there.” Finn says, and Ben nods. That seemed to be the theme of the last decade of his life. Without Phasma pulling his arse out when he was in over his head, he’d probably be dead several times over.

“Very. So she’s pulling me along the streets by my hair, and I’m stumbling along after her, blood dripping down my face, wheezing, and she stops at a 7/11. She sits me down on the sidewalk outside, and comes out a few minutes later with a slushie that was, no joke, about the size of my head. Red.”

“A slushie?”

“Mmhm. Used it as a cold compress before Phasma rebroke my nose so I could breathe.”

“Oh, gross.”

“What’s really gross is that I held it in the wrong place when Phasma reset my nose, and I ended up bleeding in it. She made me drink it, once it was more liquid than ice, insisting that it’d make me think twice before I got into another fight.”

“Did it?”

“Nope. Now, the point of all this-”

“This story had a point?”

“Surprise. A little bit of the point is that at least Phasma never made you drink a slushie flavoured with your own blood.” Finn laughs, earlier melancholy completely gone, which was the real point of the story, but Ben’s not about to say anything that could remind him.

“That is so disgusting.”

“The main point is-” Ben has to think fast for a second, because he doesn’t actually have a second, larger point. But he’s always been good at thinking on his feet, and the pause between his words is barely noticeable.

“I’m pretty sure that’s the night Phasma and I became friends. Actual friends, not just work friends, so don’t listen if she tries to tell you anything else. But, ah…” Ben trails off, but Finn doesn’t let him flounder too long.

“Are you trying to ask me if we’re ‘actual friends’ instead of ‘work friends’?”

“Do you have to physically make those quotation marks whenever you repeat something I’ve said?” Finn calls them bunny ears; quirks his fingers in the air whenever he wants to tease Ben.

“Yes, I do. And yes, we’re ‘actual friends’, Kylo.”

“Good.” Ben feels awkward now, knows it shows on his face. Somehow this had turned from taking Finn's mind off his problems into something close to talking about Ben's own feelings, something he liked to avoid at all costs.

“If it’d make you feel less awkward, I can go find a red slushie for you to bleed into. Maybe some bikers.” Ben rolls his eyes at the teasing.

“Maybe later.”

“Cool. But if you ever want to hang out, just let me know. I promise I won’t make you drink a blood slushie.”

“Gee, thanks.” He means it, through the sarcasm, and Finn smiles that ridiculously happy smile of his.

 

 

“Phasma’s out back.” Ben tells Hux, when the man comes up to the bar. Instead of going to find her, however, he slides onto a barstool.

“Aren’t you going to ask what I want?” Hux asks after about a minute of silence.

“I figure you’ll tell me soon enough. And if you don’t, I have other things to do.” Hux raises an eyebrow, before his face returns to the carefully blank mask Ben’s become used to seeing. Over the past few weeks he’s gone from sneering disdain to a carefully cultivated neutral gaze. Ben wishes the other man would go back to obviously judging him, because at least then he could mostly ignore Hux’s face. Now, Ben’s contemplating starting a tally of what colour the other man’s eyes are, each time he sees him.

“The usual.” He says, after a moment of silence, a smirk curling the corners of his mouth a little bit when Ben starts to make an Old Fashioned. Ben hates that Hux has a usual drink, hates that he remembers it - a fact which Hux is clearly aware of. Bastard.

Ben contemplates fucking the drink up on purpose, but doesn’t. He’s had a surprising amount of restraint when it comes to dealing with the other man, but maybe he’s just maturing. Growing out of the reckless destruction which he’d given into too many times in the past, burning bridges left, right and out from under his feet; cutting his nose off to spite his face, again and again. The thought that, maybe, he’s finally grown past the wild instability of his youth is a pleasing one. Maybe coming back to New York was a good move, after all.

He puts the drink down in front of Hux, takes his money, and emphatically does not watch as the man walks into the back room.

 

 

“So, I’ve been thinking about your problem.” Ben’d come in earlier than he usually does, in order to have lunch with Finn. It was their first ‘actual friend’ time together, Finn had joked. Ben had finally been able to meet Nines, who works the alternating weekends to Ben, and works the morning shifts when Finn doesn’t open, such as today. They’d met at the bar for convenience sake, and were now in a small cafe half a block away.

“Yeah?”

“Maybe take them on a date.” Finn pauses, sandwich halfway between his mouth and his plate. The look he gives Ben is hilarious, half way between incredulous and ‘ _are you stupid?_ ’

“You know I can’t tell them.” He reminds Ben, who shakes his head.

“I didn’t say tell them. I mean, take them on a date but don’t tell them it’s a date. Just hang out, but do date stuff.”

“ _Do date stuff_? Why do I get the feeling that you have no idea what ‘date stuff’ entails.” Ben shrugs, not bothering to deny it. The only date he’d ever been on was when he was fourteen, to the school dance. Under the Sea themed. She’d tried to kiss him when they slow danced, and Ben had spent twenty minutes hyperventilating in the bathroom. He’d thrown up, and one of the chaperones called his Dad. Humiliating, but it meant he hadn’t had to do anything but work on the car with his dad for the weekend.

Uncle Chewie had timed them changing tires; Ben won by twenty seven seconds. It was a good day, a good memory. One of the only ones he can think of, without remembering everything else as well.

“I’m not saying try and neck with them in a darkened movie theater. Try and, I don’t know, show them what a good boyfriend you’d be, but don’t let them know that’s what you’re doing. Do it a few times, if it goes well. Ease them into the idea.” Finn looks intrigued, food forgotten on his plate.

“Once you get your confidence up, or you think that they like you back, or something, tell them what you’ve been doing. Or tell them how you feel. Sorry, I haven’t worked this part out fully, yet.”

“Kylo, that’s brilliant!” Finn says, and Ben’s not sure if he’s serious or not, but then Finn’s grinning and reaching for his phone. He sends off a quick text, gets a response a few seconds later.

“This could actually work.” Finn says quietly, and he looks more emotional than Ben’s prepared to deal with when he lifts his gaze from his phone to Ben.

“I’m going to hug you, if you’re okay with that.” Ben thinks for a moment, before nodding. Finn doesn’t try to awkwardly reach across the table. Instead he stands, rounds the table, and pulls Ben into an affectionate cuddle. Ben’s not quite sure what to do with his hands, eventually settling them on the middle of Finn's back.

It’s not like he’s never been hugged before, it’s just been a while since anyone’s hugged him like this. No ulterior motives, no wandering hands or intent. The last person who hugged him was Phasma, just after he arrived. It’d been quick, only a few seconds long, but enough. This was much longer, and Ben feels a little bit awkward, but not uncomfortable.

He doesn’t have the urge to rip himself away from the contact, or shower, or fight, or squirm out of it. Instead, he lets Finn hold on for as long as he wants. Finn eventually lets go and sits back down.

“Sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” He apologises, but Ben shakes his head.

“You didn’t. It was… okay. Nice.” Finn beams, and Ben smiles back. Having friends, plural, was... good. Great. It was great.

 

 

Ben’s still in a good mood from his lunch with Finn the previous day when Hux walks in. He’d been hugged by someone other than Phasma and hadn’t felt the immediate need to escape. It’s a huge step, and one he’d never actually thought he’d reach. Working with Finn earlier in the day had only bolstered the feeling. Not even the sight of Hux is enough to burst the bubble of astonished happiness in his chest. It’s a novel feeling. He’s in a good enough mood to actually smile at the red-headed man as he approaches the bar. Hux blinks, looking a bit suspicious, a bit stunned, and Ben grabs a glass.

“The usual?” Hux nods, hesitantly, as he sits down.

“Thank you.” He says, quietly, when Ben hands over his drink. The taller man almost fumbles the money, and the pair of them stare awkwardly at each other for a moment or two. His eyes are green today, highlighted by the tie he’s wearing. His thin lips look redder than usual as well; wind chapped. Ben’s perhaps thought too much about Hux’s lips, about Hux on his knees. He figures it’s safer to think about that than other things, when he can’t sleep. Unfortunately, he hasn’t been able to restrain his thoughts; he’s got no way of corralling and containing his thoughts of Hux to a night time sphere.

Ben can feel the urge to do something ill advised getting stronger the more they look at each other. Phasma thankfully ruins the moment by noticing that her friend had arrived, and drags him off into the back room to take her dinner break.

All in all, it was the weirdest interaction he’s ever had with Hux. It was almost… amiable. Ben wouldn’t say it was friendly, just not overflowing with disdain and hatred.

Luckily, when Hux re-emerges half hour later, he sneers at Ben when he leaves, and Ben scowls back. Status quo re-established, Ben mutters something uncharitable about Hux just loud enough for the other man to hear. Phasma rolls her eyes, but Ben ignores her, and whatever it was that’d happened earlier in the evening between Hux and himself.

“So, why do you hate Hux?” Phasma asks later that night, when they’re closing the bar. He’s been half expecting her to ask for the past couple of weeks, so he only shrugs, and keeps wiping at the accumulated grime on one of the back tables.

“He’s a judgemental fuck. You should have seen the way he looked at me first time he saw me.” Even though he’s not looking at her, he can feel the raised eyebrow, so he elaborates.

“He stared at my knuckles, and the stick and pokes on my arms, and how the shirt I was wearing was practically worn through at the shoulders.” Ben’s not particularly self-conscious, but he’s never been a fan of people judging him on sight. For a good portion of his life, he probably deserved to be judged on sight, but he’s actually trying really hard to distance himself from who he used to be. If anyone needed proof as to how much he’s changed, he’d just point out the fact that he _didn’t_ punch Hux in his pretty mouth the first time they met.

“You hate Hux because he stared at your hands, forearms and shoulders.” Phasma’s tone told Ben that he was missing something, but he couldn’t figure out what it was.

“Yeah.” Ben looks over to where she’s standing by the till, totalling up, and she looks very, very amused.

“You’re both idiots.” She declares, grin starting to pull at the edges of her mouth.

“Probably.” Ben agrees, still trying to puzzle out what Phasma was saying. She doesn’t say anything more on the topic, and Ben doesn’t inquire more than a few inquisitive looks. He’ll see if he can puzzle it out himself, and if not he’ll just ask. If it was something big, he’s sure Phasma’d just tell him; since she’s withholding the information, Ben can only assume it’s unimportant.

 

 

Ben’s still smug from annoying Hux when the door opens, and the barista of indeterminate gender from his local hole in the wall cafe walks in. They look just as surprised to see Ben, as Ben is to see them. They still have that look on their face, the same expression they always have when they see him. It clears, after a moment, and they walk further into the bar. Ben frowns, pretty certain that they’re not old enough to drink. They come up to the bar, hopping up onto one of the barstools.

“You’re my barista.” He says, finally, for lack of anything better to say.

“You’re my bartender.” They reply, raising an eyebrow.

“Not without proof of age, I’m not.” The barista barks out a laugh - loud and carefree, and for a moment there’s an uncanny resemblance between them and Ben's mother. It passes quickly, thankfully, but it still leaves Ben feeling off kilter.

“You must be Kylo.” They say, stretching a hand out across the bar. He looks at them suspiciously, taking the hand cautiously.

“Figured I might as well wait for Finn and Poe in here, rather than outside. I think it’s going to rain.” His barista was one of the people Finn was in love with? Small world. For a moment he contemplates asking them if they’re Buttercup or Sunshine, before deciding now’s probably not the right time. Finn’s not here to embarrass, after all.

“I’m Rey.” Even though Ben knew they had to be Rey, seeing as they clearly weren’t Poe - Finn had once spent seven minutes and twenty five seconds rhapsodising about Poe's hair, Ben had timed it - the name still hits him like a punch to the chest. It probably wouldn’t have been so bad, if their laugh hadn’t reminded him of his mother.

“Kylo.” His voice doesn’t waver; it’s almost like it’s not suddenly hard to breathe.

“Can I get some ice water?” They ask, and Ben moves to get a glass on autopilot, mind still caught up with thoughts of his family. Of his tiny cousin, Rey, who he’d loved dearly. Who he’d abandoned with little more than a warning and a weapon, leaving her to fend for herself while he fled as fast as his feet could carry him. Ran and ran and ran, leaving her alone. What sort of person gives a child a knife and tells them where to aim for, instead of staying - protecting? The type of person Ben is, obviously.

Hatred, thick and choking, sits in the back of his throat, but he swallows it back down. Now’s not the time, or the place, to lose himself to memories.

Instead, he puts the glass of ice and water on a coaster in front of Finn’s Rey - so different from Ben’s Rey,

“Thanks.” They grin at him, stretching across the bar to the straw dispenser.

“Finn’s not here yet. He went home to change into clothes that don’t smell like alcohol.”

“That’s cool. I’m usually late, and today I tried to be on time. Now I’m early.” The door opens again, just as Rey’s phone chimes, and they turn towards the door, waving at the latino man who’d just entered.

“Poe, this is Kylo.” Rey introduces them, after they’ve kissed their boyfriend hello, and Poe extends his hand to shake Ben’s.

“Good to finally meet you; Finn talks about you all the time.” Ben’s willing to bet good money that Finn talks about Poe and Rey more.

“Yeah, he’s told me about you both as well.” Is all he says.

“Can I get you anything?” Poe thinks for a moment, before getting a cider, and the pair of them head over to a small table to wait for Finn. As soon as they’re seated, attention off Ben, he’s walking into the back room as quickly as he can without running.

“-omophobic wanker-” Is all Ben hears before he bursts into the backroom with as much subtlety as a bull in a china shop. Hux snaps his mouth shut with a glare, and Phasma looks infinitely amused at whatever Hux’d been saying. Ben literally couldn’t care less about Hux right now, though – which is a change, unfortunately – because,

“Finn’s Poe and Rey are here, waiting for him, for the secret date.” Hux stares at him as though he’s said something completely incomprehensible, whilst Phasma groans, shaking her head.

“The fact that Finn took romantic advice from _you_ , Kylo, is going to backfire. Badly, probably.” Ben thinks about getting offended, before shrugging.

“So you’re not coming out to watch what happens?”

“Did I say that?” She asks, already halfway to her feet. Ben goes back out to the bar, Phasma and, unfortunately, Hux joining him a few moments later.

“Who are we watching?” Hux asks, quietly.

“The couple at the table to my one o’clock. Finn’s _friends_.”

“Ah.” Hux, clearly, knows about the entire situation as well. He stays on the wrong side of the bar while they wait for Finn, and Ben feels infinitely uncomfortable with the man so close to him without the bar between them. He’d gotten used to the man being close-ish with that obvious boundary between them; the lack of it was making him tetchier than usual. He tries to discreetly keep Phasma between Hux and himself, but he’s probably not as subtle as he was trying to be. Phasma, wonderful woman that she is, helps.

It takes about ten minutes before Finn rushes through the door. He looks a bit panicked, the way Ben’s only seen when he gets asked to help do the end of month banking, before he sees Rey and Poe. He relaxes, face lighting up in a way that’s unmistakable. Then Finn looks over to the bar, and rolls his eyes when he sees not only Ben and Phasma, but Hux as well. Ben gives him what is hopefully an encouraging nod, and Finn finally stops letting a draft into the bar and heads over to his Buttercup and Sunflower.

The younger man comes to a stop with his back to his co-workers and Hux, perhaps in an attempt to dissuade them from watching, or perhaps by chance. Either way, it enables the three behind the bar to watch Poe and Rey’s faces as they see Finn.

“Holy shit.” Ben says, when Poe and Rey look up at Finn.

“Yep.” Phasma replies.

Even though Ben had thought Finn had been unknowingly exaggerating how little chance he had with his friends, he hadn’t been prepared for _this_. This being the absolute adoration on the faces of both Rey and Poe, when they look up at Finn. They’re looking at him like he hung the damn moon, and he still thinks he hasn’t got a chance.

“This is ridiculous.” Ben’s in shock.

“Mmhm.”

“How does he not know?” Hux asks, squinting slightly, as though it would enable him to understand the situation better.

“It’s probably got something to do with how they’ve got no idea he’s in love with them, either.” Phasma sounds completely exasperated.

“Idiots.” Hux tsks, and for the first time since Ben’s met him, he agrees with the other man completely.

 

 

The hard part comes that night, when Ben’s trying to sleep. As a general rule, he tries not to think of his family, and his life before. He doesn’t always succeed, but he tries. Something he never succeeded with, though he’d pretended and tried to believe and lied to himself over and over again, was thinking that his cousin was alright. But usually, he can push all those memories and feelings into a little box and ignore them until he forgets about it, however temporarily that might be. After meeting Finn’s Rey, though, he can’t quite manage it. He’s full of thoughts about his baby cousin.

It had been the one thing which had almost kept him there, in that house. Not the house, technically, but the situation. He’d argued with himself for months about leaving, vanishing into the night, never to return - but he couldn’t just leave her. He couldn’t take her with him, though - maybe if she’d been older, but she was five. A child. He hadn’t been able to take care of himself, how was he supposed to care for a kindergartener?

He talked himself in and out of so many different ideas, but one finally stuck - long enough for him to sneak out, ride his bike to the highway and hitchhike. Not much longer, though. He’d almost thrown up, in that first car, thinking of how he’d left her there. She was tiny, in her little periwinkle pyjamas, bundled up in her bed.

 _She’s got Uncle Luke, and Uncle Wedge_ , he’d thought desperately, as he left, _she’ll be fine. They’ll protect her. They won’t let him close_.

But if he’d really thought that, if he’d honestly, truly believed that, he wouldn’t have made a detour to her room before he ran away. Wouldn’t have given her the small flick knife, shown her how to use it. You don’t give weapons to children you think are safe.

Ben was disgusted with himself, with his cowardice and fear. He hadn’t gone back for her, even though he wanted to. Intentions are useless, when she’s probably as hollowed out as he is, all because he couldn’t bear to stay. Couldn’t take it any longer.

Ben stares at his ceiling, and turns the situation over in his head again and again. Maybe she said something, when it started. Rey always was smarter than Ben, she wouldn’t have been tricked like he was. She could have done like Ben did, exploded and shouted when it got bad enough that he couldn’t stand to be touched by anyone, not even his parents. They’d have to believe her, because Rey was always better than Ben.

She didn’t lie, or steal, or start fires in her room. Wasn’t desperate for attention like Ben’d been, wasn’t desperate for someone to pay attention to what was happening to him and stop it.

There was no reason to think they’d ignore her, too. Shake their heads, scold her for lying so horribly about someone who’d been so kind to her, so patient and understanding.

Maybe Rey can’t share a bed with anyone, either, skin too tight, heart thundering and the all encompassing need to _move_ movegetaway _run_.

He doesn’t make it to the bathroom before he throws up, only barely makes it out of bed.

 

 

Ben doesn’t call in sick the next day, doesn't even get coffee. He should have called in, but it was bad enough spending the morning alone in his apartment. He couldn’t be alone with his thoughts all afternoon and night as well. He knows he shouldn’t be alone right now, not with how he can get when left alone like this.

But the bar is a mistake, also.

It’s his own stupid fault, he knows. All of it is, but this especially. He hadn’t thought about their regulars, about the average age of the men in the bar. He barely gets through the door before his skin starts crawling worse than it had when he was shaking next to a puddle of vomit, unable to stand laying on a bed. A few of the regulars look up, smile at him, and Ben’s out of the door before Finn can call out.

His fight or flight reflex has a default of fight, but there are some things which make him freeze and panic and _run_.

He doesn’t know where he is, when he stops running. Somewhere nice. Fancy. Full of people, a mass of people, pressing in against him, too close. Ben knows he needs to calm his breathing, calm down entirely. Find out where he is, head back to the bar to apologise to Finn. Head home. It’s hard to calm down when every second person brushes against him, sending him flinching away again and again - bumping into even more people as he does.

His breathing is ragged, and he knows he’s shuddering apart on the sidewalk somewhere in New York, but he can’t stop, people are touching him, he can’t stop shaking, they’re too close, he feels hands all over him and it won’t stop, nothing can make it stop, he’s alone and surrounded and he can’t speak can’t shout no one would listen anyway he’s just gonna keep hurtingcryingsobbingbeggingno _nononono_ -

“Kylo.” The voice is too close, familiar, and Ben flinches back. There’s a wall behind him, the feeling of something solid at his back unexpected and unwanted. He panics even further. Pushes off, lashes out. He’s not restrained, not pushed back. His fist hits something, a glancing blow.

“Kylo, listen to me.” _Kylo_ , not Ben.

“Breathe. Come on. In. Out.” It’s enough for Ben to draw a strained inhale, breath hitching every half second or so. He doesn’t even know when he started crying, but his eyes feel irritated, wet around the edges.

“Concentrate on your breathing. Stay in the present. Inhale. Exhale.” It’s not the voice he can’t forget no matter how hard he tries, not an aged and raspy whisper, and Ben’s able to focus on it.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

He’s in an alleyway, legs weak enough he doesn’t know how he’s still standing.

Exhale.

Bright copper hair. Unfathomable eyes. Hux.

Inhale.

It’s Hux who’s speaking to him, counting his breathing, drawing Ben back from the precipice.

Exhale.

There’s a red mark blossoming against his jaw.

Inhale.

He’s lucky Ben didn’t break his jaw by accident.

Exhale.

He’s not touching Ben, barely within arms reach. His hands are held up, clearly visible, in a placating manner.

Inhale.

Ben’s glad he’s not alone, and not surrounded by a suffocating crowd. He’s glad Hux found him, somehow.

Exhale.

Fuck.

Inhale.

The next exhale is calmer, and the one after that is almost level. Ben runs his hands through his hair, avoids looking at Hux. They stand there in silence, until Ben clears his throat awkwardly.

“Thanks.” The word almost doesn’t make it past his clenched teeth, but there’s no anger in it, no animosity. Just… shame, that Hux has seen him like this. That he’s thanking Hux for seeing him, for helping him. Ben should’ve been able to help himself, shouldn’t have gotten himself into a position where he needed help - from _Hux_ of all people.

“Anytime.” Hux says, carefully neutral, and Ben chances a look at him. His eyes are blue-grey today. Silence, again, as they watch each other. It seems they’re either snapping at each other or sharing a stilted silence. No room for anything in between.

“Do you need me to call someone? Phasma?” Ben thinks about it for a second, before sighing, leaning more of his weight on the brick wall behind him. He doesn’t know how Hux got him from the crowded street to the filthy, but wonderfully deserted, alley they’re standing in. Doesn’t know how Hux did it without Ben lashing out, but he’s grateful for it.

“Yeah. Let her know that I won’t be making my shift today.” His voice is rougher than usual, and Ben contemplates getting his own phone out, and texting Finn an apology. He doesn’t, figures he’ll do it later when he’s got his head on more or less straight, or tomorrow at work.

Finn’s careful around him the next day, and Ben’s not sure whether he’s grateful or pissed off. After an hour or so, Finn relaxes, and Ben’s able to relax as well. He gets to hear all about the not-date, and manages to compartmentalise well enough that he doesn’t think of his cousin more than once or twice the entire shift.

He doesn’t sleep that night, either, but figures it’s a fair tradeoff. He’d rather stare at his ceiling for hours, thinking spiteful, mean, lustful thoughts about Hux than endure any of the nightmares he knows wait for him as soon as he dares to close his eyes.

 

 

The next time he sees Hux is just under a week later. He’d been at the other end of the bar when the lawyer had walked in, and Phasma had poured his drink and taken her dinner break. Ben had been able to avoid eye contact pretty successfully. He wasn’t successful at ignoring thoughts of Hux. In the past week he’d had an abundance of time to think about the other man, to mull over what Hux likely thought of him now.

He’d already had a low estimation of Ben, and that was when he knew nothing more than how Ben looked. Now he’d seen Ben at his weakest, shaken and crying and defeated by mere memories. By the _thought_ of something that hadn’t happened in roughly a decade and a half. God, Ben knew he was pathetic, so what the hell was Hux going to think of him?

Nothing good. Not that Ben wants Hux to think good things about him. Preferably, Ben’d like Hux to forget about him, and that encounter, entirely. If he could reach into Hux’s head and remove those memories, he would. If he could find some way to even the playing field, to bring Hux comparatively low in front of him, he would.

Instead, Ben’s just going to have to do his best to ignore Hux completely, as he should have done, right from the start. Don’t provoke the situation, don’t antagonise, don’t do anything except ignore. Ben’s sure he can do that - natural as it is to him to continually fuck everything up, he can do this one thing to keep his life on track. Just ignore one man, and everything can continue on as he’s become accustomed to. He can do it, surely.

Phasma had, at some point while Ben was lost in thought, returned to the bar. Hux is nowhere in sight, and Ben relaxes. The man must’ve slipped out when Ben wasn’t paying attention. At least the other man seemed to be on board with the new ‘ignore at all costs’ plan Ben had decided to implement.

“Go eat, Kylo.” Phasma says, flicking him with a tea towel, before tucking it into the back of her jeans.

“I’m not overly hungry.” He’s never hungry in the wake of panic attacks, and depending on how bad it is, his appetite can be drastically affected for days, though Phasma had made him eat yesterday. Judging by the look on her face, she was planning on making him eat again, even if she had to force feed him.

“Did you eat lunch? Have you had anything other than coffee today?” She raises a challenging eyebrow, and Ben can’t help the way his eyes narrow in response. He clenches his jaw instead of replying, scowling at her before he makes for the back room.

“I assumed you wouldn’t bring your own dinner, so I brought extra of mine. It’s in the fridge.” He nods his head, tightly, and keeps walking. Whenever Phasma put herself in charge of his eating habits, Ben felt like a child, and he hated it. But after that… incident in Portland, he’d stopped trying to fight her about it. They both have different ways of dealing with their pasts, after all, and if it made Phasma feel better to make sure Ben was eating, then he’d eat.

He probably should eat soon, any way. Phasma was right, as always - he’d had nothing but coffee since the previous afternoon, when she’d last made him eat.

The door to the back room closes behind him, and Ben heads straight for the fridge. He stops not even two steps into the room, pinned under Hux’s mercurial gaze. The man hadn’t left, as Ben had assumed. Instead, he was rolling down his sleeves, last of the washing up drying on the sink. He looked as impeccable as always, even with his tie thrown over one shoulder, suit jacket carefully arranged over the back of one of the chairs.

There’s a split second where Ben gets to decide whether he’s going to implement his recently thought of ‘ignore Hux’ plan, flee back to the bar, or go on the offensive. Maybe if Hux hadn’t been watching him with such dispassionate eyes, Ben might have been able to stick to his resolution. There’s something about Hux that just gets to him, though - sticks under his skin and aggravates him to the point of stupidity.

It’s been mitigated in the past, with the bar between them, professionalism and a lack of actual feeling stopping Ben from doing anything truly idiotic. Now, though, they’re in the back room, and Ben’s on break. Hux isn’t a customer, and he’s seen Ben at something close to his worst. And he’s straightening his sleeves, moving towards his jacket, about to look completely untouchable once more.

God, Ben wants to _ruin him_.

Before he’s thought it through, almost before he thinks it, he’s crossing the room. Hux’s eyes are grey-green today, and the closer Ben gets the more emotion they hold, though Ben couldn’t tell you what was Hux feeling if you paid him. It’s a small-ish back room, so it’s a matter of moments before Ben’s in front of Hux, realising for the first time that he’s taller than Hux, by a few inches. Standing so close, he can see all the colours in Hux’s ridiculous eyes, can almost feel the other man’s breath on his skin. In another situation, it’d make Ben back peddle, put as much space as he could between them.

Hux opens his mouth, likely to unleash a vitriolic barb against Ben, about the concept of personal space, but Ben leans down and kisses him before he can. It’s not chaste, or gentle, or affectionate. Ben savages Hux’s mouth, more teeth than lips and tongue, not touching Hux anywhere else but that one, violent point of contact, body coiled and ready to take a punch, ready for a fight.

What else would happen, after all, when you suddenly assault someone with your mouth? Ben’s ready for a fight, ready to show Hux that he’s not so superior. In this, at least, Ben knows he’ll come out on top. Two strong hands slam against his chest, and Ben allows himself to be forced back, waits for the accompanying punch. It never comes. Instead, Hux stands in front of him, visibly enraged, and does nothing but stare. His lips are swollen from Ben’s teeth, a little bit from his lips and tongue. Other than that, he looks the same as always. Not a hair out of place.

Ben hates it. He wants to reach out, put more effort into it this time. Dig his hands into soft flesh, leave bruises. He’s not sure what expression passed over his face at the thought, but it’s enough to end the standoff. Hux’s nostrils flare in response to whatever he saw on Ben’s face, and he surges forward. Ben doesn’t bother to block, wants the sudden pain of knuckles impacting on flesh, wants to hurt before he hurts - but that’s not what he gets.

Instead, two hands curl into his hair, and drag him down into another biting, bruising kiss. Ben’s not sure what to do for a moment, too prepared for a different sort of violence to be able to adapt immediately. Hux yanks at his hair, too hard, and Ben can’t help the noise he makes in response, hands flying up to grip Hux’s waist, grip tightening until Hux cries out. And, God, what a _noise_. He’s only heard it the once and already he wants to hear it again and again. He presses his large hands even harder into the barely shorter man's waist, and there’s that noise again, slightly more breathless, almost silenced completely between their mouths.

Better than that, is the way Ben can almost touch his own fingertips. Hux, who gets under Ben’s skin like almost no one else, is tiny. It’s unexpected that, under his expensive suits, perfect posture and inscrutable expressions, Hux is small enough for Ben to practically engulf him. He wants to, badly. Wants to wrap himself around Hux until the other man can’t think of a single thing except for Ben.

Hux doesn’t move away from the bruising grip Ben has on him - and the thought of hand shaped bruises ringing Hux’s waist is infinitely arousing - though it’s likely painful. Instead, he hurts Ben back. Yanks at his hair hard enough Ben’s entire scalp tingles, bites at Ben’s lips until they both taste blood. He slides one well manicured hand down from Ben’s hair to claw at his shoulders through the thin material of his shirt.

It’s easy enough for Ben to use his larger mass to throw Hux up against the nearest wall - hard enough that Hux’s head hit the brick probably too hard, sudden enough that he’s got strands of Ben’s hair in one hand. Ben’s also pretty sure Hux ripped his shirt, but he doesn’t waste time checking, already moving forward to plaster himself against Hux. It’s the most appealing Hux has ever been, leant against an old brick wall, eyes burning into Ben in the best of ways.

The eye contact before Ben seals their lips back together sends his heart racing, and he doesn’t know what to think about that - so he doesn’t. He’s got more important things to think about, after all. Things like ruining Hux the best he’s able in the back room of _The Finalizer_ , a full bar only meters away. They rut together like teenagers, hands too busy in hair and against shoulders and waists to move past frantic grinding. Ben wonders if it’s possible to make Hux come in his pants like a teenager, if he’ll have to go home with a wet patch on his crotch.

Then again, Hux is likely the type of person who’d make sure he wasn’t the only one suffering such an indignity, and Ben’d have to work the rest of his shift in soiled pants. So Ben reluctantly pulls one of his hands away from Hux’s waist, drags it slowly down the man’s side before he reaches between them to palm cautiously at Hux’s crotch. Hux moans, head tilting back to thud against the wall, exposing his pale throat. Ben takes that as a go ahead to fumble with the fly and slip a hand inside.

Hux makes another, louder, sound at the skin on skin contact, and Ben should go back to kissing him just so that no one overhears them. More tempting, however, is Hux’s throat. It’s easy enough to press a kiss just underneath Hux’s jaw, and again slightly lower, this time with more teeth. Hux tightens his grip on Ben’s hair and shoulder, drawing him closer as Ben necks him, slowly finding a rhythm with the hand wrapped around Hux’s dick.

Ben’s working on what’s sure to be a spectacular hickey about half an inch above Hux’s collar when the man seems to catch on to what he’s doing. The hand curled in Ben’s hair yanks harshly, and Ben’s got no choice to follow or lose a chunk of hair.

Green-grey-blue eyes glare at him, and Ben can’t stop the way he smirks in response, doesn’t want to. Hux opens his mouth to say something, but Ben doesn’t give him a chance. He tightens the hand he has wrapped around Hux’s cock, starts jerking him faster, rougher. Hux baress his teeth at Ben for a brief moment; it’s the most uncomposed Ben’s ever seen the man - he looks aroused and furious and beautiful - and then Hux tugs Ben into another biting kiss. God, they’re both going to walk out, and Phasma’s going to know exactly what they’ve been doing.

Ben can’t find it in himself to care, though, because Hux chooses that moment to stop gouging at his shoulder and moves to cup Ben through his jeans. He can’t help the way he bucks forward, or the quiet sound he makes at the unexpected contact. It hadn’t occurred to him that Hux would want to touch him back, not like this. But he does, he is, and it’s good. His hand is firm, warm, where it’s wrapped around Ben. A little dry, but Hux solves that the same way Ben had, smearing precum from the head until it’s not so uncomfortable.

There’s not really enough to make it completely slick, not enough to take away all the discomfort, but Ben doesn’t mind. He can’t really think past Hux’s hand on his dick, his own hand wrapped around Hux, the way neither of them can seem to keep any sort of pace. They’re not kissing anymore, either, just breathing against into each others mouths, noses pressed together.

Ben closed his eyes at some point, not quite sure when, but knows he wants to open them almost as much as he wants to keep them closed. The curiosity wins out, in the end, and he opens them. Hux’s own eyes are half lidded and staring straight back at Ben, whatever colour they are eclipsed by the black of his pupil. It’s unbearably intimate, eye contact in such close quarters, but Hux doesn’t look away and so Ben doesn’t either. He wants to, though, wants to close his eyes again, or turn his entire face away.

                                                          

He’s never been good with intimacy, but it’s only Hux. Hux, who Ben dislikes immensely, and who dislikes Ben. Even so, it takes great force of will to keep staring. He’s glad when he feels the orgasm coiling low in his gut because it gives him a valid reason to close his eyes, making a low sound as he does. Hux makes a noise in response, and soon after they’re coming, one after the other. Hux does the polite thing, tries to cup his hand over the head of Ben’s dick, attempts to stop cum from spurting all over them both. Ben doesn’t even try, just pumps Hux through it until the man’s shuddering, over sensitive.

He takes a moment to breathe, but doesn’t bother trying to ‘bask in the afterglow’ as someone had once said to him, chastised actually, when he’d gone to get up immediately after he’d fucked them. Hux doesn’t do anything of the sort when Ben backs away, starts moving almost when Ben does. It’s easy enough for Ben to tuck himself in one handed, heading over to the sink to wash his other hand. Hux, however, is half scowling as he tries to put himself back to rights, attempting to keep more semen from the front of his clothes.

He looks a mess, Ben’s pleased to note. Hair in disarray, quickly darkening hickey on his neck, come smeared on his clothes, almost dripping off his hand. Ben walks to the fridge to get out the dinner Phasma’d packed for him as Hux uses the sink to wash his hands. Ben stabs the clear top of the curry with a fork a couple of times before he puts it into the microwave for the recommended three to four minutes, and then sits down to watch Hux use paper towel in an attempt to look presentable.

He’s able to clear most of it off, leaving wet patches on his suit instead of something much more incriminating. Hux notices Ben watching him, and raises an eyebrow.

“You should be trying to clean up too, you know.” He says, and Ben shrugs, and points over to the pile of aprons by the lockers which he half the time forget to wear. He’ll put one on before he goes back out, and ‘forget’ to take it off before he goes home. He’ll throw his jeans and the apron in with his other washing tomorrow and no one will be any wiser. Hux rolls his eyes, and reaches for his jacket just as the old microwave starts to screech.

Ben grabs his dinner and sits back down at the table in time to watch Hux run a wet hand through his hair, slicking it back into something approximating its usual style. Hair slicked back, jacket buttoned, he almost looks like he hasn’t just gotten a quick handjob in the back room of a bar. Almost. The hickey’s wonderfully visible, and there’s nothing that could possibly be done about his swollen lips.

With barely a look at Ben, Hux sweeps out of the backroom and leaves Ben to eat his dinner. Ben grins through every bites, and for the rest of his shift.

 

 

“So I gave Hux a handjob in the backroom last night.” Ben says to Finn, instead of hello. The younger man almost trips over. Impressive, considering he’d been standing still.

“What?” Finn half shouts, and Ben’s glad that the bar’s empty right now because otherwise they’d have to deal with a gaggle of old men who love nothing better than gossip.

“Yeah.” Ben shrugs, and Finn shakes his head.

“Kylo, you complain about him literally every time he comes in.”

“Yeah.”

“In the back room?”

“Yeah. Not on the table, though.”

“Well, good I guess? Did you have fun?” Ben grins then, and doesn’t try to keep the amusement from his voice.

“I gave him a hickey.” Ben’s pretty sure that you can’t wear a scarf in an office, or if you’re a lawyer in a courtroom - some kind of dress code thing probably. Which means that, today and likely tomorrow and the day after, Hux will have an extremely visible hickey on display. He hopes Hux has an important meeting, hopes that everyone stares at the obvious hickey on his neck.

“Anyway, how’re Rey and Poe? How’s the whole thing going?” Finn smiles, and starts telling Ben all about their plans to go the the zoo this weekend.

 

 

Hux drops by _The Finalizer_ briefly that night, hands some papers over to Phasma before he slips out the door again. He looks pristine, as usual. There’s not even the slightest hint of bruising on his neck, and Ben wants to throw a glass. Wants to drag Hux back into the backroom, bite and suck at his neck until there’s no pale skin left, and no way to cover it up. Hux catches his eye, just before he leaves. He looks smug. Ben grits his teeth and looks away.

Fucking Hux.

 

 

Phasma’d left early, half a week after he’d last seen Hux and his stupid, unmarked neck. They’re still technically open for the next few minutes, but the bar’s empty, only one of the front doors are open, and Ben’s wiping down tables. Typically, the little bell over the door rings as someone pushes their way through.

“Sorry, we’re closing.” He calls out.

“Obviously.” Hux. Ben turns his head to look at the red haired man.

“Then why’d you come in?”

“Phasma in the back?” He asks, which kind of answers Ben’s question. Ben turns fully and leans against the table he’d just been cleaning.

“She left already.” Hux raises an eyebrow, as though Ben could be lying about such an easily checkable fact. Or maybe it’s just in surprise. Ben’s not the best at reading facial cues, sometimes. Most times.

“Unusual.” The man comments, turning and walking back towards the door with his usual brisk pace. He gets to the door, and stops. Doesn’t open it. Instead, after a few seconds, Hux slides the bolt across, presumably engaging the lock as well. Ben wonders, for a moment, what the actual fuck Hux is doing.

“Hux-” Ben cuts himself off, when the other man turns around and stalks across the short distance that separates them. And then Hux has his hands in Ben’s hair, and Ben’s wrapping his arms around Hux, and they’re grinding on each other, against a table in the bar where Ben works. He should really not be doing this here. Shouldn’t be doing it with Hux at all, really. He’s thought about the man too much to make fucking him a regular thing. Not that he would ever get attached to someone like Hux, but it’s the principle of the thing.

So Ben pulls his lips away from Hux’s for long enough to say ‘backroom,’ because Ben’s never been able to resist a bad idea. The older man nods, immediately moving for the back room. Ben wants to follow, wants to crowd up against Hux’s back, make walking difficult for him. Instead, he rushes over to make sure the doors are locked properly (they are), flick the lights off, and bring the tray from the til into the back room.

Hux is waiting for him, leant against the back room table like Ben’d been leant against the bar table. He hasn’t even bothered to take off his suit jacket. He watches Ben as he puts the til in the small safe, as he removes his apron. It’s a bit weird, Ben thinks, having Hux watch him as he potters around the back room. Once he’s finished his tasks, he doesn’t prevaricate. He walks himself back into Hux’s space, expecting the other man to grab onto Ben like he had before. He doesn’t. Instead, they stand awkwardly close and just look at each other.

Hux looks unruffled, as always.

Ben wants to ruin him, as always.

Slowly, very slowly, Ben leans forward for a kiss. Just as Hux starts to respond, though, Ben pulls away and sinks to his knees. Hux blinks once, surprised, but he doesn’t let his surprise stop him from undoing his belt buckle so that Ben only has to deal with his fly and underwear. How considerate. It’s been awhile since Ben’s given a blow job, but he doesn’t bother easing himself back into it. Doesn’t bother trying to be neat about it either. It’s messy; he can feel the mix of spit and pre-come gathering at the corners of his mouth and spilling over. He’s sure that, when it’s over, Hux’ll need to wipe his previously clean trousers down again. Should’ve used a condom, Ben realises too late - how could he be so fucking stupid, as to not use a condom, but it’s already happened, is happening, so he just gets on with it.

Ben’s got his hands wrapped around Hux’s thin hips, partially to keep the man still, partially for the chance to press more bruises into milk white skin. Hux keeps still under his hands, thighs tense with the strain, holds onto the table behind him with a white knuckled grip. He’s vocal about it, about what he likes, keeps saying things like ‘ _god yes_ ,’ and ‘ _fuck, again_ ’ and ‘ _Kylo_.’ Ben loosens his grip on Hux’s hips, allows the man to thrust, slightly, as he moans and swears.

The sound of Hux slowly coming undone above him has Ben shifting in place, trying to relieve the pressure in his own groin. This is what he’d wanted; Hux, less than perfect, brought down to his basest level by Ben. It sounds good, looks even better. Hux is still clothed, suit jacket fallen halfway down his arms, tie halfheartedly tugged apart, shirt tails constantly getting in Ben’s way.

He’s so far from how he usually looks, so debauched and shameless, that Ben can’t help but moan around Hux’s cock in his mouth. Hux thrusts, because of it, catching Ben off guard, choking him a little bit. He can feel his eyes watering, but he doesn’t tighten his grip on Hux’s hips again, forcing him immobile. Instead, he moves one hand to the base of Hux’s dick, breaths out, and leans into it, relaxing his throat as he goes. Hux inhales, sharply, half shouts ‘ _oh **fuck**_ ’ as Ben deep throats him.

Ben can feel tears starting to leak from his eyes, and draws back after a few seconds, only giving himself enough time to take a quick breath, before taking Hux into his mouth again. One of Hux’s hands leaves the table, threads through Ben’s thick hair, but he doesn’t try and hold Ben in place the way a few people have tried before. Instead, he curls his fingers and tugs gently, pulling Ben away. Ben pants for breath as he looks up at Hux, who’s curled his free hand around himself.

Hux quirks an eyebrow at him, as though he’s asking a question. Ben’s got no idea what he wants, mind hazy with arousal, so he nods. If it’s anything he doesn’t like, he’s strong enough to stop Hux. The older man’s hand tightens in his hair, sending sparks of pain-pleasure across Ben’s scalp. He holds Ben in place and, with a few short strokes, comes all over Ben’s face. He’s sure he looks absolutely fucking filthy, hair a mess, mouth swollen, tears in his eyes and come on his face. Hux seems to think so, if the look on his face is anything to go by.

Hux tucks himself back in, and Ben continues to kneel there. He’s waiting for Hux to move to the sink, clean himself up, and then leave so that Ben can take care of his own insistent erection. But Hux doesn’t move away, doesn’t leave. Instead, he pushes at Ben’s shoulders until the taller man topples backwards. Ben lands flat on his back, and has to awkwardly maneuver his legs out from under himself. Once he’s finished moving, relatively comfortable, if confused, Hux almost dives for Ben’s crotch.

And oh, _oh_ , Hux is good. He gives back as good as he’d gotten it, better even, maybe. He’s neater than Ben’d been, but saliva still accumulates at the corners of his mouth, and Ben can’t help the way he moans at the sight, even though he tries to keep it in. Ben catches his lip between his teeth, bites down in order to silence himself, but it doesn’t work. All that happens is he bites his lip bloody, and the added pain just makes him louder. So Ben lets go of his lip and moans, as loud as he dares.

He can’t keep looking at Hux, with his thin, pink lips wrapped around Ben’s cock like they belong there, so he throws his head back and closes his eyes. It doesn’t help. Now all he has to focus on is the sound, vulgar and wet and erotic. And the feel of it, of course. Hux’s wet mouth, the press of the back of his throat, the way he’s got one hand on Ben’s hip, the other splayed out across his lower stomach, underneath Ben’s t-shirt. Ben can’t help the way he whines when Hux digs his fingernails in.

Hux pulls off, and Ben whines at that, too.

“Look at me.” Hux demands, voice rougher than usual. Ben scrambles up onto his elbows, in order to comply. Hux maintains eye contact as he takes Ben into his mouth again, and the sight is obscene. Ben doesn’t last long after that, unable to force himself to look away from Hux’s enchanting eyes. He’s not sure if he can’t categorize their colour because they’re indescribable, or because he’s incapable of thinking of anything other than Hux’s mouth and the way he looks choking on Ben’s cock.

After, Hux tucks Ben back in, going to the sink to wash his hands and rinse his mouth. Ben stays on the floor, dick still out, his own come shot halfway up his shirt, Hux’s come drying on his face. Hux hadn’t tried to save Ben’s clothes, this time. Not that he really minded. Ben’ll shove the shirt in a plastic bag and zip his jacket up on the way home.

As Ben lays there, watching Hux straighten his clothes, he finally finds the will to half heartedly fix his jeans. After a few minutes, Hux looks more or less normal, while Ben’s still a mess. It’s almost like he wasn’t just blowing Ben. That thought, of Hux being completely unconcerned, unmoved, by anything Ben’s involved with, makes the taller man - something. Not quite angry, though there’s anger simmering in his gut all the same. Ben’s never been the best at identifying emotions other than anger, but he’s trying. It’s annoyance, maybe. Frustration, as well.

Watching Hux retie his tie perfectly, it’s like Ben was never there, like he’s nothing. Like he can’t impact on Hux one way or the other, and the other man likely prefers it that way. It makes Ben feel… something. Definitely something. Ben might not know everything he’s feeling, but there’s one thing he’s certain of.

He hates it. Hates seeing Hux compose himself so quickly. It makes him desperate to touch Hux, to undo the transformation. To have Hux look messy, undone, and all of it because of Ben. And Ben hates that he hates it, that anything Hux does can have such an effect on him. Hates the other man, from his shined oxfords to his neatly parted hair.

Ben sits up as Hux finishes cleaning himself up. Hux watches as Ben pushes himself to his feet, legs not quite stable underneath him. He contemplates taking his shirt off and using it to wipe his face off, if only so he doesn’t have to move past Hux in order to get to the sink. His shirt’s covered in come and sweat, but it would be almost worth it. After a few seconds deliberation, Ben decides to use the sink, Hux be damned. The man’s eyes are fixed on him, as unreadable as always, but he’s not about to let that stop him.

Ben takes the two and a bit steps needed to get to the sink, but is intercepted before he can bend over and begin washing his face. Hux hooks a finger under his jaw, and smoothly pulls Ben’s jaw around for a kiss. It’s tongue and teeth, and Ben doesn’t even think about trying to smear Hux’s come all over the other man’s face - just kisses back with as much coherency as he can manage. By the time he thinks of it, Hux is already walking away, wiping at his lips with a handkerchief.

 

 

Ben knows he’s been more distracted than usual, but he’s still pretty sure there’s a guy who follows him around, sometimes. Late middle aged, maybe. It’s hard to tell, with the large, grey-blond beard the man’s got going on. Ben will notice him, following behind, until suddenly he’s gone. Ben’s not sure whether he’s actually being followed by the man, or if his new, relatively peaceful existence means that he’s constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. Inventing things that aren’t there in order to indulge his paranoia.

Ben notices him again about a block away from his apartment, in the afternoon when he’s on his way to work. The man disappears before Ben starts checking over his shoulder every few seconds, but it doesn’t stop Ben from looking for the man for the rest of his walk. He knows it’s probably just some older guy who lives nearish Ben, and has a similar enough schedule that their lives overlap peripherally. But there’s something about the man, something that stands out about him, which Ben can’t dismiss out of hand.

 

 

The entire situation weighs heavily on his mind whenever he thinks of it. This time, it means that an entire half hour of his shift goes by before he remembers to tell Finn he’d blown Hux the night before. Finn sighs, deeply.

“Not in the backroom.” Finn’s voice is pleading, slightly.

“Sorry.” Ben isn’t sorry, and Finn knows it, given the way he throws his tea towel at Ben, and a handful of cardboard coasters.

“Man, there are things a guy doesn’t want to know - about the place he works, and his friends.” Finn chastises, shaking his head, hands on his hips. Were it not for the grin curling the edges of his mouth, Ben might think he was serious. Ben just raises an eyebrow at him, and coughs something that sounds suspiciously like ‘ _poeandrey_.’ Finn rolls his eyes, grinning his usual grin.

“Yeah, yeah. Was he good?” Ben throws the tea towel back at him, Finn laughing as it hits him in the head.

“I thought you didn’t want to know.” Ben points out. Finn shrugs, still smiling, as he goes back to drying glasses.

“I don’t. But you want to tell me. And I kind of do want to know. So, was he good?” Ben can’t help the way he smiles in response, something very like a grin overtaking his face.

“Very.” Finn high fives him, which Ben accepts gracefully. The subject changes naturally, and nothing more is said about it until just before Finn finishes for the day. He’s about to head into the back room, but hesitates at the door.

“So… where did it happen? No details, just… I eat in there, man.” Ben huffs out a laugh, shaking his head.

“Not on the table. Nowhere you’ll have to worry about.” It was true, unless Finn was particularly concerned about the soles of his shoes. His friend gives him a thumbs up, and Ben’s left alone to contemplate whether or not he’ll get his dick out in the back room again. He definitely shouldn’t. Shouldn’t have any sort of sex in the back room, shouldn’t have sex with Hux at all, period.

All he has to do is get Hux out of his system. Once more, and Ben’ll be able to ignore the man. Third time’s the charm, and all that. Ben ignores how false that sounds, even within his own mind. It’s not like he’s got any particular attachment to Hux, after all, it should be easy to stop. Besides, it might not even happen again. It’s only occurred twice, after all. In the grand scheme of things, it’s nothing, and Hux is nothing to Ben.

Ben may spend far, far too long thinking about it.

Later, when Phasma arrives, Ben lets her know that Hux had dropped by after she’d left last night, looking for her. He doesn’t tell her that he stayed longer, that he can still hear Hux moaning his name, but her clear, blue eyes seem to pierce straight through to his soul, regardless.

“Hux came here last night?” She asks, looking very curious. She eyes Ben like he’ll spill his secrets if she stares long enough; luckily for Ben, she looks away before it actually happens. He’s not used to keeping secrets from Phasma, and will likely tell her this one if she applied the slightest amount of pressure. Although, it’s probably that she already knows.

“Yeah. He seemed surprised that you’d left early.” Ben reiterates, after she’d turned her knowing gaze away.

“How odd.” There shouldn’t be anything odd about Hux stopping by to see Phasma, seeing as he does it at least once a week, so she must mean something else by it. Ben can’t figure out what, though. He’s never been good at subtlety, at looking beyond the words people say. He doesn’t bother interrogating Phasma about it, however, as it likely pertains to Hux and, as previously established, Ben doesn’t care about or for Hux at all.

 

 

Next time Hux comes in, he has dinner with Phasma, as usual. She emerges roughly half hour later, but Hux doesn’t follow her out and head to the door, as he usually does. Not that it matters, if Hux is still in there or not. It’s not like they’re going to be foolish enough to fool around when the bar’s so full. And they’re not friends, either, so it’s just gonna be awkward and silent if Ben goes in there before Hux has left. He waits for a minute, two, finishes pouring a beer, and then turns to Phasma.

“I’m gonna go eat.” He tells her. Phasma looks at him for a moment, before nodding, turning back to talk to a customer. The sound of the door clicking shut is loud to Ben’s ears, but Hux doesn’t turn around from where he’s washing the dishes. Ben’s locker clangs noisily as he opens it to grab his dinner - a bowl of instant noodles, a poor food choice which he’s going to make sure Phasma doesn’t see. The kettle’s still half full, and he flicks it on, leaning against the counter while he waits for it to boil.

Hux, no one will be surprised to hear, is meticulous in his washing up. He finishes just as the kettle boils, tears his eyes away from Hux as he pour the boiling hot water so he doesn’t accidentally burn his hands. Ben’s pretty sure Hux hadn’t looked at him the entire time he’d been in the room and, while it makes him want to be loud in order to draw attention to himself, he’s also almost thirty. He can, on occasion, show restraint and maturity.

So he sits at the small table, puts his noodles down, and watches Hux dry his hands and unroll his sleeves as he waits for his dinner to ‘cook.’ Hux turns around, but Ben’s already got his phone in hand, and pretends as though he’d been looking at it the whole time. If he had facebook, pretending to ignore Hux would be easier. Instead, he checks his emails. Sprawled in the sturdy seat, head tilted down in order to look at his phone and not Hux, Ben’s intently aware of every move Hux makes.

The older man will probably walk straight past him, Ben’s sure. Will pull on his suit jacket, pick up his bag, and walk out of the back room without sparing Ben a single glance. It’s probably for the best, even though the thought of it makes Ben’s chest feel oddly tight. It’s a miracle they weren’t caught the first time, and last time the entire bar had been empty. Neither of them are especially stupid, and it would be downright foolish for anything to happen between them again. Phasma’s right outside, after all. Ben’s definitely not stupid enough to run such a gauntlet twic-

A fine boned hand moves into Ben’s field of vision, and takes Ben’s phone from his hands. Hux places it on the table, and Ben tilts his head back to look up at him. Hux smirks, and it’s positively wicked. He kicks at one of the legs of Ben’s chair, and Ben obediently moves his chair away from the table and styrofoam cup of hot water and noodles. Ben’s legs are spread already, and it’s easy enough for Hux to sink gracefully to his knees between them. God, Ben is that stupid, apparently.

Ben should push him away, because Phasma’s _right outside_ , and Ben doesn’t think he can keep quiet with Hux’s mouth wrapped around his cock. Apparently, they both make stupid decisions, because Hux is tugging Ben’s rapidly hardening cock out of his jeans, and Ben sure as hell doesn’t stop him. Instead, he encourages him, runs a large hand through Hux’s styled hair, gives a breathless moan as Hux licks him, root to tip, before taking Ben into his mouth.

Ben lasts all of ten seconds before he realises he needs to gag himself, otherwise he’s going to make enough noise that the entire bar’ll know what they’re doing. There’s nothing in reach but himself, so he muffles himself with the hand he’s not got threaded through Hux’s red hair. Hux’s mouth is just as good as Ben remembers, all wet heat and tongue and Hux moaning around his dick. Ben knows he’s not going to last too long, overwhelmed by Hux, the feel of his mouth and hands, the way he looks kneeling between Ben’s legs - he hasn’t put on his jacket yet; Ben’s never been so overwhelmed by a man in a suit shirt, before.

This time, when Ben gets close, Hux doesn’t pull off and finish Ben with his hands, likely making another mess on Ben’s shirt in the process. Ben tugs at Hux’s hair, not willing to exert too much force, but Hux doesn’t take the hint. Ben manages to pry his hand away from his mouth in order to moan what he hopes is a coherent warning. Hux ignores him, ignore the warning and the increasingly insistent hair pulling, and hums around Ben’s cock instead. It’s too much, and Ben barely manages to slap his hand back over his mouth before he’s coming, loud even through his makeshift gag.

Immediately afterwards, Hux stands, and spits into the sink, washing his mouth out. Ben’s a bit dazed, not completely sure if his legs would support him, but he’s coherent enough to realise that they hadn’t used a condom - again. God, clearly they’re both idiots. They’re old enough to know better, and yet it hadn’t even crossed Ben’s mind. The sight of Hux on his knees had effectively wiped everything from his mind.

Ben’ll mention something about it, when Hux comes back. Probably. Except, Hux doesn’t take the few steps necessary to reach Ben. Instead, he retrieves his jacket from the back of one of the other chairs and shrugs it on. He picks his bag up off the floor, and makes for the door, like he’s going to leave. Like it doesn’t matter to him, whether Ben reciprocates or not. He’s not sure whether he’s more angry or confused. Angry because, once again, Hux is acting as if nothing Ben does matters, like he could never see Ben again and he wouldn’t even notice.

Confused, because Hux is going to walk away without demanding anything in return. As though the important thing was Ben, and his pleasure. He’s never been with anyone who was more concerned with Ben’s pleasure than their own. Doesn’t Hux want Ben to get him off? Didn’t Hux like it, last time? Maybe he didn’t, maybe Ben did something wrong. He knows quite well that you don’t need to like something, to find an experience pleasurable, to ejaculate from it. What if- Ben stops the thoughts thundering through his head by opening his mouth.

“Hux?” He asks, half twisted around in his seat. The other man pauses with his hand on the door.

“Your dinner break is almost over.” He informs Ben. Ben’s face must show his utter incomprehension, for Hux rolls his eyes, and walks back over to Ben. Ben reaches for him, when he’s close enough. Wraps a finger through one of Hux’s belt loops, draws him in, starts to reach for the man’s fly with his free hand. Hux stops him, tangles their hands together.

“Kylo, you need to eat.” Hux reprimands him, and Ben frowns.

“If you’d let go of my hand, I would.” Hux huffs, apparently amused with Ben’s quip, but he shakes his head anyway.

“Actual food.”

“But…” Ben trails off, not sure how to end the question without sounding like an insecure child. It doesn’t help that his brain’s still not clicked over yet, still sex stupid. Hux waits semi-patiently for Ben to continue, eyebrow quirked as he taps his foot. When it becomes clear that Ben’s not going to finish his sentence, or actually start it, Hux bends at the waist and kisses him. It’s not as rough as usual, less teeth and more tongue. He can taste himself in Hux’s mouth. The taste’s as unpleasant as Ben expects, but the idea of it makes him want to tug Hux into his lap.

“Make it up to me next time.” He says quietly, as he pulls back. Ben nods. Hux steps away, untangling their hands - Ben hadn’t even realised he’d still been holding Hux’s hand. Hux takes a step back, and Ben’s other hand falls away from Hux’s belt. Hux stares at him for a second, and Ben can’t do anything but stare back. Hux reaches the door, but doesn’t walk through just yet. He hovers, turns his head so he can look at Ben while he talks.

“Kylo,” He says, as though he needs to get Ben’s attention. As though he doesn’t always have most of Ben’s attention.

“I’m clean, by the way.” It takes Ben a second to figure out what he means. Nods his head when he connects the dots. He’d assumed, but had gone to get tested after last time, anyway.

“Good. Same.” The red haired man rolls his eyes, mutters ‘ _elegant as ever_ ’, and leaves.

Ben’s noodles are a pleasant, easy to eat temperature.

 

 

On his way to brunch with Finn, Ben’s pretty sure that guy followed him again. Not for long, but long enough to ruin Ben’s pleasant mood.

 

 

It’s two weeks before he sees Hux again, and Ben’s spent entirely too much time thinking about him. He’d tried to purge the man from his thoughts - it’s been three times, after all - but to no avail. He’s not especially surprised. Truthfully, and Ben usually tries to be truthful with himself, with a few, notable exceptions, he doesn’t want to stop thinking about Hux. Doesn’t want to stop whatever the hell he’s doing with the other man, either. He’s had fewer pleasant conversations with the man than blow jobs, and yet Hux is usually on his mind.

He’s locking up on his own again. Phasma had received a call fifteen minutes before close, and had then informed him that she needed to leave early. She’d double checked with him three times that it was alright with him if she left early, and each time Ben had nodded and told her to go. He didn’t mind, and she was his best friend and his boss - of course it was alright if she left fifteen minutes early. He’d encourage her to do it more often, if he thought she’d listen. Usually, she’s here for at least half hour after close, if not more.

So it’s just Ben, and the radio echoing through the empty bar from the back room, crooning a mix of oldies and blues. He’s already flicked the main lights off, having finished all the cleaning, and is heading towards the front door. It’s closed, but not locked, the clock having just ticked over. Time to lock up properly and head home. It’s starting to get cold enough at night that Ben’s thinking about driving to work in order to save himself a miserable, cold walk home.

A shadow is visible through the stained glass of the door, and then the door pushes inwards, little bell jingling as Hux slips through. Ben’d been close enough to the door that it had barely missed hitting him square in the face. It falls shut, with Hux leaning against it. He’s close enough that Ben can feel his body heat.

“Phasma in?” He asks, and Ben reaches around him to shut the door properly, locking it one handed. He reaches up and slides the bolt shut with a snap, maintaining eye contact with Hux as he does. The sound is louder than the soft music of the radio, and Hux’s eyes seem to darken as Ben stares down at him.

“Left early.”

“Again?” Hux asks, eyebrows furrowed. It’s curious, Ben thinks, that the only two times Hux has ever come in late, coincide with the rare times that Phasma leaves early.

“Mmhm.” Ben hums his agreement. Hux opens his mouth, likely to continue the inane conversation, but Ben surges forward and kisses him. Presses him up against the door, and ravishes his mouth. It’s been two weeks, and Ben doesn’t want to stand here talking when they could be doing something much more pleasurable. Besides, he hasn’t had a chance to make it up to Hux, yet. It’s been weighing on his mind, and Ben had deluded himself for a little while that that was why he’d spent so much time thinking about Hux. It wasn’t, but it had played a part in it.

It feels uneven, Hux having received nothing from their last encounter. Now that he’s here, Ben plans on making it up to him. He’s got an idea, and one he hopes Hux is amenable to. They’re not going to get anything done by trading open mouthed kisses against the locked front door of _The Finalizer_ , so Ben reluctantly pulls back. In the dark of the bar, Ben can’t see what colour Hux’s eyes are. Some ridiculous colour combination, likely.

Hux’s hands are fisted in Ben’s shirt, so when the taller man steps away, Hux has no choice but to let go or be pulled after Ben. He lets go, but walks close enough to Ben that he almost gets in the way of Ben opening the register. Hux waits patiently as Ben locks the till away, and unwraps his half apron. He’s not leant against the table this time, waiting for Ben to approach him. Instead, he’s been hovering near Ben, and once it’s apparent that the other man has finished, Hux pushes him back against the bank of lockers and kisses him again.

The back room is lit only by an antique blue and pink neon sign hanging on the wall, neither of them having flicked on the light, but they don’t need much light to kiss. It doesn’t take long before they’re hard, grinding against each other once more. Ben likes it, would almost be content with nothing more than this - unhurried friction, with no chance of getting caught. Almost. He’s going to make it up to Hux, and he’s been thinking about this since he’d first wrapped his hand around Hux’s dick.

It’s hard to pull his mouth away in order to talk, but he succeeds. Kind of. He manages to end the kiss, but he doesn’t manage to speak. He moans, instead, Hux having turned his attentions to Ben’s neck. The lawyer doesn’t attempt to ease Ben into it, doesn’t try to pretend he’s doing anything but marking Ben’s skin. He sucks and bites and makes Ben’s knees go weak. He can almost feel Hux’s smug smirk against his skin, growing larger at every hitched breath Ben takes.

“Fuck. Fuck me.” Ben eventually manages to say, repeating himself, louder, when Hux doesn’t react. Hux pauses, pulling back from the mess he’s likely made of Ben’s neck in order to raise an eyebrow.

“Kylo-” He starts, sounding aroused beyond measure, but also ridiculously patronising. He’s likely going to point out that this is hardly an appropriate place, or that they don’t have any supplies, or maybe that he just doesn’t want to fuck Ben. He’s not about to let Hux say any of that, and especially not the last part, so Ben cuts him off.

“I’ve got lube in my bag,” Ben raps his knuckles on the lockers they’re pressed against, “and you can take me over the table.” Hux’s eyes are intent, clearly interested in the idea, and Ben feels desperate for it, all of a sudden; for Hux. The shorter man moves away, and Ben can’t help the way he reaches out for the other man, not willing to let him get too far. Hux smiles, shaking his head, before reaching out and tugging Ben away from the bank of lockers, as well.

“Get the lube.” He tells Ben, who’s eager to comply. He’s got one of the lower middle lockers today, and has to bend in order to open it. Hux steps closer once more, pressing his hips firmly to the curve of Ben’s arse, and starting to grind, slowly. It feels good, good enough that it takes Ben two tries to unzip his bag. He doesn’t bother to search for the lube, just upends his bag in the locker. If he kept more in his bag than an extra jumper, his wallet, some books, papers and a knife, his things probably would have fallen out of the locker and spread over the floor. As it is, the sparse items clang against the metal of the locker, and it’s easy enough to find the lube.

As Ben stands, Hux moves towards the sink, thoroughly confusing the taller man. Ben doesn’t say anything, just puts the lube on the table and strips his shirt off, throwing it in his locker. Hux is crouched at the cupboard underneath the sink, and starts rummaging through it as Ben moves to take off his boots, socks and belt, leaving them in a pile near the lockers as well. The floor is cold against his bare feet, will likely be even worse on his knees once he takes his jeans off, but it’ll be worth it.

Ben’s thrown his jeans atop his boots by the time Hux returns, disposable latex gloves in hand. The man’s quick to shed his jacket and tie, but Ben’s voice stops him before he can undo more than the first button of his shirt.

“What’s with the gloves?” Hux raises an imperious eyebrow at him, looking down his nose at Ben, even with the pink and blue lighting playing havoc with his colouring.

“I’m certainly not fingering you without them.” Hux informed him, and Ben blinks in confusion.

“Unless you’d rather prepare yourself. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” Hux says, after a few moments of Ben trying to wrap his mind around what Hux had just said. Ben shakes his head.

“I’m not uncomfortable. I just… why would you want to?” Ben can’t help the way he crosses his arms in front of his chest, shoulders hunching over a bit. He wants to blame it, and his goosebumps, on the chill of the room, but he knows it’s got more to do with his own state of undress compared to Hux’s still almost pristine state than the temperature.

“Why would I want to? Don’t be ridiculous, Kylo, of course I want to.” Ben jerkily nods his head at the declaration.

“But, I was gonna blow you while I did it?” It comes out sounding more like a question, so Ben adds, “So you wouldn’t get bored.” Hux’s eyes narrowed, and his nostrils flared. He looked quite angry, for a second, and Ben’s got not idea what he’s done wrong. He takes a few steps closer and, for all the muscle and height he’s got on Hux, it takes everything he has not to back away.

“If you’re comfortable with it, I’d like to prepare you. It certainly won’t be _boring_ for me, as you’ve suggested.”

“I’m not uncomfortable with it.” Ben says, again, and Hux nods. He reaches out with one hand, and guides Ben closer to the table.

“Are you allergic to latex?” He asks, and Ben shakes his head. He’s got no allergies, or intolerances, which he tells Hux when the man prompts him for a verbal answer.

“Good. Let’s get started then.” He pushes at Ben’s chest, and the man turns obediently so that he’s facing the table. The gentle pressure of Hux’s hand on his upper back sends arousal shooting through his body again. He bends over, resting his forearms on the sturdy table, as Hux runs cold hands down the length of his back. Ben’s erection, which had flagged during the previous, confusing, discussion, returns full force.

Hux’s fingers toy with the band of Ben’s boxer briefs for a moment, before he pushes them over Ben’s arse and down his legs. Hux crouches as he does so, taping Ben’s left ankle. It takes him a moment before he realises what Hux wants. He shifts his weight to his right leg, and lifts his left foot. Hux slides the material over his foot, before tapping Ben’s right ankle. He repeats the process, and then Hux is standing, throwing his underwear at the pile where the rest of his clothes are, and reaching for the lube.

Ben can hear Hux pulling on the gloves, and opening the lube. Cool, slick fingers touch Ben’s heated skin, and he can’t help but flinch away, slightly. It’s not a sensation he’s used to, other people’s lube slick hands on his skin. Other people's hands on his skin, in general. Hux rubs a slick hand across Ben’s lower back in a soothing manner, before his hands start to trail down, over the swell of Ben’s ass. Each hand grips, and then gently spreads Ben’s ass, exposing him.

“God,” Hux says, voice sounding husky and hot as hell, like he enjoys the sight of Ben, willing and spread out before him. The people Ben fucks don’t usually spend time admiring him in any way, but Ben can see Hux, from where he’s pillowed his head on his arms, and the man looks like he’s trying to commit the sight to memory. Ben can feel himself blushing, glad that his hair and arms hide it. He doesn’t know what Hux would do if he saw. Hux is so - weird, to Ben at least.

He’ll snap and snipe, and treat Ben like he’s meaningless, stare at Ben with his inscrutable expression and grey-blue-green eyes. He’ll sit at the bar with an Old Fashioned and watch Ben work, but won’t speak to him. He doesn’t even pretend to give Ben any common courtesy. They kiss and press against each other, and sometimes it’s hard and rough and exactly like Ben thought it would be, with the hatred and the disdain. And then Hux does something like blow Ben without wanting anything in return, or want to finger him open, or look at him exactly like he’s doing now.

Ben doesn’t think he’ll ever understand Hux.

“I want to bury my face right here.” He says, brushing a thumb over Ben’s exposed hole, and Ben lets out a shocked little moan.

“Yeah?” Is all Ben can think to say as Hux starts circling his thumb, pressing gently every so often, like he’s trying to ease Ben into it, as though Ben wouldn’t beg for Hux’s fingers now, if he asked.

“I’d take my time, wouldn’t give you anything more until you begged for it. And even then, I might just ignore you, keep fucking you with my tongue.” Hux releases one of Ben’s ass cheeks, and slowly slides the tip of one finger in, barely to the first knuckle. It feels good, but it’s not enough. Ben doesn’t think it’ll be enough until he’s got Hux inside him, fucking him raw.

“ _Please_.” Ben says, half begging, and he can see Hux smirk, that smug fuck.

“Since you asked so nicely.” Hux pushes his finger in further, and Ben relaxes as much as possible, keeping all the tension he feels at having someone so close in his shoulders and arms, rather than his lower body. Like always, it works a charm, and Ben’s able to focus on the feeling of Hux fingering him.

“More.” Ben tells him, and Hux doesn’t bother saying anything this time, just adds a second finger to his next slow thrust. He pumps his fingers gently, like Ben’s breakable and Hux didn’t rip Ben’s shirt the first time they touched each other. He’s taking his time, opening Ben up in easy, unhurried movements, and Ben’s about to snap at him when Hux brushes his prostate and Ben swears, clenching around Hux’s fingers as his body reacts to the sudden pleasure.

Ben half expects Hux to speak again, something condescending, probably, but he doesn’t. Instead, he shifts his fingers enough that he’s pressing right against Ben’s prostate, and circles his fingertips. It’s too much stimulation after barely any, and he almost howls in response. Hux pulls his fingers away, much to Ben’s very vocal displeasure, before returning with three. He rubs them against Ben’s sensitive entrance for a few moments, playing with the rim, before plunging them back inside.

Ben’s sure this is some type of torture, the way Hux is fingering him. He alternates between slow, stretching thrusts, and pressing his fingers against Ben’s prostate. The sudden change of sensation drives all thoughts out of Ben’s head until all he can do is whine in the back of his throat, and press his ass back into Hux’s ministrations. Eventually, when Ben feels like he needs more, harder and faster and thicker or he’s going to die, Hux stops. Pulls away not only the hand he’d been fucking Ben with, but his entire body. The cool air of the room rushes into the space where Hux has occupied only moments before, and Ben makes what is possibly the most confused, annoyed sound he’s ever made.

“Wait, wait.” Hux says, and Ben pries his eyes open to glare at Hux, unsure of when he’d actually shut them.

“Condom.” Hux says, in explanation, moving far too far away from Ben in order to retrieve his wallet. Ben wants to tell him not to bother, because it’s taking too long, and he wants Hux _now_. Whatever part of his brain that still working holds his tongue, though. He absolutely should not bareback a man he barely knows in the back room of his work place. He has to walk home, after this - it’ll only be worse with Hux’s come slowly leaking from his arse.

But the thought of it makes him pant into his arms, and it’s almost enough for him to speak up. Luckily, Hux returns before he can say anything, and Ben feels himself blush as he hears the sound of a zipper over his own, uneven breathing. With his his eyes closed, he’d forgotten that Hux hadn’t finished getting undressed - hadn’t really started. Ben watches the other man through his hair, now. Hux still has his shirt on, though the sleeves have been messily pushed up to his elbows, and the top few buttons undone. His trousers and pants are just now being pushed down to his thighs, and Ben feels his mouth go dry at the sight of Hux’s erection standing proud against the tails of his shirt.

It’s jarring, Hux’s cock against the white shirt, precum likely staining it already. Ben thinks it’s a sight he could get addicted to, Hux hard and mostly clothed. Before, Ben hadn’t liked the power imbalance of it, too confused and wrong footed by the conversation. Now he can feel his dick jump at the thought of being bent over, naked and ready, for a mostly clothed Hux.

“Okay?” Hux asks, spreading Ben apart with one of his hands. Ben nods, rasps out something that sounded vaguely like a yes, and draws a shuddering breath when Hux pushes in. He’s slow about it, like he was with his fingers, the hand he’s not using to steady himself running up and down Ben’s back. Shoulder to hip to shoulder, like Ben’s a skittish horse. Finally, Hux is pressed flush against Ben’s ass. Still, he doesn’t move. It’s the height of frustration for Ben, which is likely why Hux does it.

“Okay?” Hux asks, and Ben can’t help but roll his eyes, though he’s not sure Hux sees it, hidden behind his hair as it is. But maybe he does, because his hand tightens on Ben’s hip, and he frowns a bit. Hux is staring at him, eyes intense in the neon light, waiting for Ben to answer him. Verbal answers seem important to Hux, for a reason that Ben can’t fathom. He doesn’t know why Hux hasn’t started fucking him yet, why he’d bothered going slow at all, Ben can take it. It seems like another thing that Hux does which Ben’ll never understand.

“I’d be better if you fucked me.” He says, instead of answering another query about how he’s doing. Hux raises an eyebrow, and Ben shakes his hair mostly out of his face in order to raise one back. Hux places his hands on Ben’s hips, pulls out, then gently pushes back in. The friction is nice, but nowhere near what he had in mind. Hux keeps up the languid pace for far too long, before the look of growing frustration on Ben’s face tips him off.

“Oh, was this not what you wanted?” Hux asks, all innocent confusion, and Ben realises that that fuck knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Hux. Harder.” Ben demands, words only partially mumbled by his arms. Hux leans forward, pressing his shirt clad chest to Ben’s naked back. One of his hands slides up from Ben’s hip, past his shoulder, to grab a fistfull of thick, black hair. He tugs, forces Ben’s head up out of his arms, tilts it back enough that Hux can nip at the sensitive skin just below Ben’s ear.

“Beg.” He says softly, right next to Ben’s ear. God, Hux is an asshole, but at least this is consistent with the rest of his personality. Ben contemplates ignoring it, or saying no, but he wants Hux to fuck him hard enough he has trouble walking home. He wants Hux to be rough, to tug his hair, bruise him, use him. Besides, he’d thought it earlier, hadn’t he? That he’d beg Hux for more? And maybe it would make the other man lose his cool, like he had the first time, when Ben had all but thrown him against a wall.

“Please, Hux. I want you to fuck me, please, harder. Bite me, wreck me, fuck me raw, Hux, _please_.” Ben waits, for what feels like an eternity, before Hux responds. The man presses a kiss to the same spot he’d nipped already. Then, without warning, he sinks his teeth into Ben’s skin, hard. Ben can’t help the way he keens at the sensation, or the way his hips thrust forward on instinct. Hux straightens up, then, and Ben can see the way his teeth gleam in the dark of the room. It looks ominous, sinister, and it makes Ben's cock ache.

 

 

Ben spends half his morning attempting to unearth a scarf. He hadn’t been planning on it, but Rey’s wide eyes and the giant, underlined question mark they drew on Ben’s take away cup made him rethink the idea. Finally, he finds one, wraps it around his neck, throws on his jacket and leaves for work. He’s glad it’s not summer, as he’d probably overheat. Finn raises his eyebrows at Ben, when he doesn’t leave the scarf in his locker with the jacket, but doesn’t question it.

It’s cool enough inside to get away with it, kind of. The wind that blows in every time the door opens has a bite to it, and Ben’s actually glad for the scarf. Like most of his things, it’s a bit worn, but it serves it’s purpose well enough.

They get a delivery and, as usual, Ben volunteers to haul it in, leaving Finn to man the register. Even with the bite to the wind, Ben warms up quickly, and throws the scarf onto one of the chairs. The only problem - and something he doesn’t realise until he’s already back behind the bar - is that Ben completely forgot to wrap the scarf back around his neck.

“Jesus Christ, Kylo!” Finn yelps, when he catches a glimpse of Ben’s neck, and the what little part of his upper back is visible. Ben kind of wishes he owned one of the collared shirts that Hux habitually wears, the ones which seem to cover half of the man’s neck. Or maybe just some concealer or something.

“I thought Rey was joking when they texted me. Are you alright?” Finn seems genuinely concerned. He’s hovering a tad closer than usual, and shifts back when he realises it, but Ben doesn’t mind. They’re friends, now. Ben had thought, once upon a time, that it was only Phasma who he’d willingly allow within his personal space. But he’s fine with Finn getting close enough to touch, as well. It might be that Ben doesn’t mind his friends in his personal space. An interesting hypothesis, but he’d have to have more than two friends to test it properly.

“I’m fine.” He tries to smile reassuringly at Finn, but the man doesn’t look any less concerned. Ben can kind of understand why. His neck’s a mass of bruised bite marks, from just under his jaw, spreading all the way down and out to his shoulders. There are bruises blooming from under the bite marks, and the faint outline of Hux’s hand on his hip had still been visible when he’d arrived home. Even with the way Rey, and now Finn, looked at him, at the marks, Ben couldn’t regret asking Hux to bite him harder.

Just the memory of it has Ben hardening slightly, thankful for the apron over his jeans.

“Kylo…” Finn trails off, clearly not sure how to continue, clearly determined to try. Ben cuts off whatever Finn’s about to say with a smirk.

“I fucked Hux. Or, he fucked me. It was great. And consensual.” Finn keeps his ridiculously earnest, concerned expression for a few moments longer, before he nods and gives Ben a small smile.

“Alright, man, but if any of that changes, you know I’m here for you.” Finn gives Ben a careful pat on his shoulder, and then returns to serving customers while Ben goes and grabs his scarf from the back room, wrapping it firmly around his neck again. Ben’s glad that Finn was willing to drop the subject, glad that he trusted Ben to know what he was doing. He’s also glad that, when Finn heads into the back room to clock out, he returns with a grimace on his face and asks,

“Do I even want to know where you banged?” He sounds so pained that Ben can’t help the laugh that tumbles from his lips.

“Nope. But don’t worry, I cleaned up.”

“Aw, no. Man, Kylo, why?” Finn wipes a fake tear away, shaking his head with feigned disappointment. Ben’s still laughing as Finn walks out the door.

Phasma also raises an eyebrow at the scarf but, unlike Finn, she doesn’t ignore it. Instead, she tugs on one end, says,

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wearing a scarf, before.” Ben has the option to attempt to keep it a secret from her, but doesn’t bother. She’d likely catch a glimpse of his neck at some point before it healed, and would be equal parts concerned fury and worry. Better the get it out of the way.

“I had really, really great sex.” A smirk curls it’s way across Phasma’s lips.

“What a coincidence.” She says, which makes no sense. Honestly, Ben doesn’t understand half the things Phasma says, in relation to Ben’s interpersonal relationships. Then again, Ben barely seems to understand interpersonal relationships, so it’s not really a surprise.

 

 

Ben wasn’t expecting to see Hux for a few days, at least. If Ben sees him more than once a week, it’s unusual. And yet he walks into _The Finalizer_ that very night, when Ben and Phasma are playing go fish with the deck of cards they keep under the bar for especially slow shifts. They both look up when the bell jingles, Ben halfway through sweeping the cards off the bar and into his hand when he realises that it’s only Hux. Phasma grins at her friend, who gives a small smile back.

Ben starts to shuffle the deck, not concerned about the aborted game - he was losing, after all. Ben keeps his eyes on the cards he’s shuffling, and doesn’t look up at Hux. He wants to, though. Wants to know if Hux is looking at him, if he’s noticed the scarf. If he even cares that Ben’s neck is a mess of bite marks and bruises in the shape of Hux’s mouth.

“Kylo?” Phasma’s voice jerks him out of his thoughts, just in time, too. If he’d thought any more about the way Hux had fucked him last night, he wouldn’t be able to move away from the cover of the bar.

“One old fashioned, I know.” Ben throws the cards down on the bar and grabs a glass, focusing entirely too much on making the drink so that his mind doesn’t have time to wander. He listens to the conversation between Hux and Phasma with half an ear. It half sounds like they’re speaking in code, but Ben thinks it might just be legal jargon. Apparently Phasma’d helped Hux study during uni, and still retained enough information to understand whatever the hell Hux was talking about.

When Ben turns around to give Hux his drink, Hux’s laptop bag’s on the bar, and he’s pulling out some manilla folders. Phasma opens one, flicking through the loose sheets of paper inside as Ben places the glass on the bar, sliding it closer to Hux with his fingertips, so that he doesn’t have to get closer to the older man than necessary. Hux isn’t paying attention to Ben when he hands over the money, scrolling through something on his phone, and Ben’s able to take his money and hand over the change without any sort of contact.

Ben shoves the cards back inside their box, throws them back under the counter, and goes to wipe down a table. If the table happens to be the as far away from Hux as it’s possible to be, well. What a coincidence.

It’s not that he’s ashamed of getting fucked by Hux, or anything that happened the previous night. He’s quite pleased, actually. There’s a pleasant ache in his lower back and arse, and when he bends over to reach the far side of the table, his muscles throb slightly. The problem is, Ben doesn’t know how to act around Hux, now. If it was just sex, if Hux was just another one night stand, Ben would be fine. But he sees Hux regularly, he’s been intimate with the man on multiple, consecutive occasions, and he wants to keep fucking Hux.

And sometimes Hux kisses him, and it’s not rough and hard, just a meaningless precursor to sex. It’s soft, and it leaves Ben a bit breathless. He likes it, even though he doesn’t know _why_ Hux kisses him like that.

But he’s never been good with people he… likes. It’s not quite the right word, because he doesn’t like Hux, he can barely stand the man. They’ve had about two civil conversations that didn’t involve sex or Ben pouring Hux a drink. But Hux is good at sex, and Ben likes that. He doesn’t want to screw it up for himself by reminding Hux how much they detest each other. Hate sex can be good, Ben knows that from personal experience, but people don’t usually have multiple encounters with people they hate. It’s more of a one off, moment of passion kind of thing. The way Ben had thought it would turn out, when he pressed Hux up against a wall the first time.

“Kylo!” Phasma calls out, voice too loud in the empty bar, and Ben looks up from where he’s been ‘cleaning’ the same patch over and over again while lost in thought. She’s waving a manilla folder at him, and Hux has turned on his stool, leaning against the bar so that he can watch Ben. Their eyes meet, for a moment, and Ben feels his mouth go dry.

“Man the bar, Kylo, I’ve got to go file this shit.” She rolls her eyes, and Ben gives a small smile. He’s halfway across the bar when Phasma disappears into the back room, the door closing behind her tall, broad figure, and Ben realises too late that he’s now alone with Hux. The best thing for him to do is stay silent, and avoid Hux. He’s sure there’s something he can do at the opposite end of the bar from Hux. Unfortunately he’ll have to walk past Hux to get behind the bar, unless he wants to jump it and risk Phasma’s ire.

Hux watches him approach with unreadable eyes, which resolve themselves into a blue-green colour when Ben gets closer. Hux doesn’t appear inclined to move from his relaxed position against the bar, or to talk, and Ben relaxes. He’s almost behind the bar, a step past Hux, when the other man reaches out and grabs one end of the scarf Ben’s wearing. Ben attempts to tug it out of Hux’s hand, but the man doesn’t let go. Hux’s eyes are flashing with challenge, and Ben feels his own eyes narrow.

It appears that avoiding Hux this time was going to go about as well as the last time he’d decided to try it, and so Ben decides to give up on the idea. Instead, he takes a step back, so he’s standing next to Hux, and reaches up to unravel his scarf. From the front he looks pretty normal, only the barest hint of a hickey blooming under his right ear. Ben smirks at Hux, and then turns around so Hux can see the riot of blue and purple which paint the back of his neck and shoulders.

Cold fingertips touch the base of his neck and Ben flinches away from the unexpected contact. He takes a breath, then forces his shoulders to untense. After a few moments, Hux presses his fingers back against Ben’s skin, and he starts tracing the marks. He applies pressure, a few times, and Ben lets his eyes fall closed, revelling in the sensation. Hux moves his fingers down, until he’s pulling at the collar of Ben’s shirt, revealing one of the worst bruises, right at the base of Ben’s neck.

Hux had been fucking desperately into Ben, loose and pliant and already fucked out beneath him, barely able to keep himself upright after the force of his orgasm. His hard, forceful thrusts lost their rhythm, and when he’d come, he’d curved his body over Ben’s and attached his teeth to the base of Ben’s neck in an unforgiving bite. Hux’s teeth had broken the skin in a few places, and it had hurt enough that tears had spilled over from Ben’s dark eyes. After, Hux had made Ben sit in one of the chairs while he disinfected it, taping gauze from the first aid kit over top. He’d apologised, too, but Ben had laughed him off. It’d hurt, sure, but it hadn’t been _bad_.

He hears Hux shift, hears his clothes rustle, and the stool groan slightly, but Ben keeps his eyes closed, stays turned away from Hux. It’s an effort, because there’s a large part of him which it getting increasingly tense at hearing Hux move around directly behind his back. Ben’d taken the gauze off during his shower that morning, hadn’t even thought about replacing it, and now Hux’s fingers caress the small, scabbed over indents where his teeth had drawn blood.

Hux’s hand moves away, replaced by his lips. Soft kisses are pressed against the dark discolouration, and Hux’s hands slide down Ben’s back until they rest on his waist. Ben feels jittery, uncomfortable with Hux so close to his back, with Hux’s hands on his waist, his slimmer frame too far back to even be in Ben’s peripheral vision. His shoulders tense, briefly, before Ben solves the problem by turning around. Hux doesn't move back, and Ben ends up close enough that he can feel Hux’s breath.

Hux’s eyes are dark, possessive, and Ben wants to forget about the way his skin had just felt too tight, wants to ignore how fucked up he is, so he reaches forward and presses his hand to Hux’s half hard crotch. Hux bucks into his hand, digging his fingertips into Ben’s waist. They don’t have a lot of time - it’s a miracle Phasma hasn’t finished filing already - so Ben can’t do anything more than tease, leaning down slightly to kiss Hux as he does. It’s another one of those soft kisses, open mouthed and slow. He traces his fingers along the fly, then up to toy with the waistband of Hux’s tailored pants.

Then, he steps back, away from Hux’s hands and lips, away from the now noticeable bulge in the lawyer’s trousers. Hux makes a sound that’s pure frustrated arousal, and Ben smirks in return. Hux looks like he’s thinking about following Ben, before he smooths out his face and seats himself on the bar stool once more. Ben grins, and Hux looks like he’s never seen Ben smile before, shocked and a bit confused, a tad pleased. And then Ben tugs up the hem of his shirt, and Hux’s eyes zero in on the small, finger shaped bruises which decorate Ben’s hips. After Ben had asked, begged, for it last night, Hux hadn’t held back.

Ben knows he likes it, likes the way it feels, likes the way it looks. Hux likes it too, if the look on his face is anything to go by. Gone is the indifference he’d plastered on; he looks hungry, and a little bit dangerous. He stays firmly on the stool, though, and Ben drops his shirt and walks behind the bar. Hux turns in his seat, watching Ben. The dark haired man reaches for his scarf, wraps it around his neck again. Phasma emerges, a few moments later. Neither of those things changes the way Hux is looking at Ben.

 

 

Half a week later, Ben takes his dinner break in the back alley, on his knees in front of Hux, listening to the man swear and curse and moan as he fists Ben’s thick hair between his hands. Hux himself wastes no time in returning the favour, and seems to make it his mission to completely undo Ben. He’s glad they thought ahead, took the initiative to use the alley used for deliveries and the dumpster, because Hux makes him shout loud enough he’s surprised no one comes to investigate.

After, Hux kisses him, slow and soft and sweet, and Ben thinks about that kiss for the rest of the night.

 

 

Ben sees that man again, the one with the greying sandy hair. The man followed him most of the way to work, until Ben zig zagged enough to lose him. He throws up in the sink when he gets to work, stomach a mess of knots. He can't stand the thought of being followed, stalked like prey. The thought of someone watching him, waiting to strike. There's nothing to say any of it's true, that it's not just Ben being overly paranoid, but he can't stop thinking about it, and it makes his skin crawl.

Finn rubs his back as he throws up, holding his hair out of his face. He's concerned, and when Ben refuses to go home sick, his dark eyes spend the rest of their shift watching Ben. Finn watching him doesn't make his skin crawl, it just makes him feel... warm, kind of, that he cares so much.

 

 

Almost every morning, Ben gets coffee from the same place. It’s the cafe Rey works at, Ben doesn’t know its name. The sign above it is more graffiti than sign, and the take away cups are generic, the ones that come with the coffee beans. The menu is handwritten on a chalkboard, and the walls are papered with flyers for all sort of things, from gigs to lessons to missing pets to buy/sell listings to reproductions of old west wanted posters and spaceship posters. There are three mismatched, soft chairs around one slightly wonky table in one corner, and four stools under a bench that runs the length of the shop’s only visible window.

It smells like coffee and bread, and Ben’s never seen anyone buy anything other than coffee, but the small display case next to the register has different things every day, so he assumes they must. Between the hours of five forty five and eight am, punk music pumps through the speakers behind the counter at a low volume. This morning the sound is absent, replaced by the radio. It’s not the only change, this morning.

Rey is absent.

There’s a girl behind the counter, instead. Her name tag reads ‘Jess.’ Ben hadn’t even known this place _had_ name tags, as Rey’s never worn one. It’s odd. Ben has to actually speak to give his order, something he hasn’t done for weeks. Jess hums along to the radio as they makes his coffee, instead of the chatter Ben’s become used to since Rey realised they have a friend in common. Ben sees a perfect looking fern in his coffee, before Jess puts the lid on, instead of the weird blob Rey does. They’re practicing a dragon, they swear.

Jess smiles at him, tells him to have a great day. Rey usually tells him to get the fuck out of their cafe.

Ben misses Rey.

“Sick, remember?” Finn says, after Ben asks him if he knows why Rey wasn’t manning their usual station. Ben thinks for a moment, before shrugging. If he remembered everything Finn told him about Poe and Rey, he wouldn’t have any room to remember how to tie his shoes.

“The ice skating not date? They caught a cold. A really bad one. They’re probably rugged up in their apartment, with a billion blankets and hot soup provided by their dads.” Ben remembers Finn talking about the ice skating. He talked about it for two straight shifts in the lead up. And, as usual, Ben got the complete run down about the not date the next day. If they’re not working together, they’ll get coffee. Sometime's they’ll swing by where Rey works to say hey, before going for a walk - Finn’s an active talker, walking helps him think.

Finn, it must be noted, gets a heart in his coffee. Ben still gets the blob. Occasionally Ben can make out a shape in it; it’s never a dragon.

“Their dad’s are really nice. I met them when I brought over some more soup for Rey.” Finn keeps a running tally of how many members of Rey and Poe’s families he’s met. Like most things regarding Finn and his ridiculous love for Poe and Rey, it’s so adorable that it makes Ben a little nauseous.

 

 

It’s late enough on a Saturday night that it’s technically Sunday, and _The Finalizer_ is completely empty, apart from Hux and Ben. The front of the bar is dark, almost silent, except for the noises seeping through the door to the back room. No light seeps out from under the door, because the neon sign on the wall gives out enough blue-pink light that they’re not stumbling around blind, and that’s all they need.

Ben’s sitting on one thankfully sturdy chair, jeans around his ankles, shirt thrown into a corner of the room, while Hux rides him. Ben’s managed to get him half undressed, this time. His slacks are folded neatly on the table with his tie, jacket hanging over the back of a different chair. Hux’s shirt is half unbuttoned, but Ben had abandoned that when he’d discovered that Hux was wearing an undershirt due to the cooling weather. He had more pressing matters to attend to, like fingering Hux open as the slimmer man writhed on his lap.

Now, though, he wishes he’d had more patience. He’s licking and sucking the lower part of Hux’s neck, nibbling at the man’s collarbone, wishing he could press his mouth to every inch of Hux’s skin. If his hands were free, he’d attack the buttons with vigour, but he quite likes them where they are, under Hux’s clothes. He’s got one hand on Hux’s hip, the other on his waist as he helps the man lower himself up and down on Ben’s cock.

It’d been slow, at first, the pace they’d both set. Hux seemed to like it like that, the feel of Ben’s dick slowly fucking him, dragging against his prostate with each thrust. Hux had run his hands all over Ben’s shoulders, down his arms, anywhere he could reach. He’d dig his nails in occasionally, when he wanted Ben to fuck up into him harder. The fluorescent lighting makes Hux’s eyes look otherworldly, and Ben doesn’t think he looked away for a second.

Now, though, they’re faster, harder, losing whatever rhythm they’d established as they get closer and closer to the edge. Ben hopes he’s not hurting Hux, with his grip, with the way he’s practically lifting Hux up and then forcing him back down, thrusting up into Hux’s eager hole. If he is, the red haired man doesn’t seem to mind, willing to let Ben maneuver him however he wants, hand relentless at his own cock, pressed between them. He grabs a handful of Ben’s hair as he comes, tugging harshly, and Ben follows him over the edge eagerly.

Hux slumps forward, head resting on Ben’s broad shoulder as they catch their breaths. Ben relaxes his grip on Hux, though he doesn’t let go. He runs his hands up and down Hux’s sides, still underneath his shirt, making the man squirm slightly. Ben’s breath catches as he does so, the movement of Hux’s body too much for his oversensitive dick, still buried inside Hux.

“You’re ticklish.” Ben says, voice lower than it usually is, and Hux nods, slightly. He’s still boneless, draped over Ben like an oddly shaped blanket. They should probably move, pull apart and get dressed, stop touching each other altogether now that they’ve got what they wanted. Ben doesn’t move, doesn’t try and get Hux to move, either. Instead they sit there, still joined, hands still lazily moving over each other skin.

After a while, Hux shifts upright, and Ben winces, easing himself out of Hux, finally. Hux looks down at him, somehow still regal, even with his hair flopping in front of his eyes, shirt half a mess from his own come, and small love bites blooming over his pale skin. Ben expects him to say something, maybe something cutting, or derogative. There’s the outside chance that it’s a compliment.

Hux doesn’t talk. He leans forward and draws Ben into a kiss. He should definitely push Hux off, now. Shouldn’t return the kiss. But Ben very rarely does what he should do, and instead he kisses back, just as softly as Hux. They stay there for far too long, sharing lazy kisses until they get cold enough to move.

Ben catches sight of something dark on Hux’s thigh, as the man gets off him to pull his underwear and trousers back on, but can’t see it properly in the gloom. He’s not able to think about it for long, distracted by the way Hux bends over to pull his underwear on.

He remembers it the next day, when he and Finn are bringing stock into the back room, and wonders about it. Hopes it's not a bruise in the shape of his hand, because the amount of pressure needed to make a bruise that dark, that quickly, is not pleasant. Hopes even more that it's not someone else's hand. Nines is manning the bar, his shift extended in order to facilitate Ben and Finn working through the new stock. He’d decided not to tell Finn that Hux had ridden him the previous night, or at least to tell him after they finish working in the back.

The plan to be nice and keep Finn out of the loop has one, large hole in it. Ben can’t stop looking at the chair, thinking about the way Hux had felt last night, riding him. The way he’d looked, head thrown back in pleasure. It was the same chair as the one he’d blown Ben in, too. The cushion on the seat has cartoon cacti on it, as opposed to the other chairs which are upholstered with small cats, boxing gloves, and the superman symbol, respectively.

“Oh no.” Finn groans. Ben blinks, torn out of his thoughts about the way Hux had sounded when he’d climaxed, and looks at Finn.

“Not the chair, man.” Finn’s large, dark eyes are imploring as he puts down a box and comes to stand next to Ben.

“What? I didn’t say anything!” Ben attempts to look innocent. As always, it doesn’t go too well for him.

“You didn’t have to. The face you make when you look at it kind of gives it away.” Ben blushes, a little bit.

“Sorry.” Ben’s apology is sincere, for all that he’s not sorry in the least. He’s sorry that Finn knows about it. Finn groans, shoulders slumping.

“I use that chair.”

“There’s more than one.”

“I like _that_ one!” Finn points at the chair, looking like a petulant teenager, and Ben can’t help the smirk that spreads across his face.

“Hux rode me in that chair last night.” The look on Finn’s face is hilarious. The younger man points to a different chair, the one which has the superman logo on the fabric.

“I have a new favourite chair. Don’t fuck Hux on it.” Ben laughs, loudly. Finn raises his eyebrows, shaking his head.

"Seriously! Promise me!" Ben does, laughing all the while.

 

 

Two days later, Ben’s shift at work is a morning one instead of a afternoon/evening/night shift. It’s weird, leaving work when it’s still light out, but he takes the opportunity for a slow walk home. Usually, it’s late enough that he’s not inclined to dawdle, or catches a bus. He drives, sometimes, but only when the weather’s terrible. He considered it, when it started getting colder, and probably will once it starts to snow, but parking’s too much of a hassle to deal with until he absolutely has to.

It’s such a nice day, Ben’s barely even paying attention to his surroundings. He doesn’t react to the name called out, the voice hopeful and hopeless all at once. Doesn’t even notice it - why would he? It’s not his name, anymore - until there’s a woman in his path on the sidewalk. He makes to move around her, a stationary object suddenly in his way, slants a glare her way for suddenly stopping on a sidewalk, and that’s when he sees her face.

His entire world shifts on its axis. Like a localised earthquake, Ben the only person feeling the world crumble beneath his feet.

He doesn’t have a first thought, or a second - there’s what feels like an eternity of static inside his brain as he stares at her, and she stares back. If he hadn’t reacted, if he hadn’t looked at her, if he’d kept on walking, she’d never have known it was him. It’s been years, and he’s sure he looks different enough that he’s not instantly recognisable as her son. He should have just kept walking, pretended that her face meant nothing to him.

God, but he’s always been too fucking stupid for his own good, and he can’t help the way his phone almost drops from his suddenly limp hand at the sight of her face. Can’t help the way he stares, open mouthed, at his mother.

It’s been fifteen years, and he still recognises her instantly. In his head, whenever he’d thought of her - of them all, no matter how briefly - they’d remained the same as when Ben’d last seen them. She looks different, but similar enough for him to recognise her. Older than when he’d last seen her; she’d been in her late thirties, then, winding the phone cord around her hand as she talked into it. The latest in a string of important phone calls; she’d knocked on his door before she’d left for the afternoon, but Ben hadn’t answered.

He’d been gone long before she’d returned home for the night.

And now she’s in front of him, with grey in her hair and more wrinkles than he’d ever thought of her having. Like the rest of her, her voice is the same, but different.

“ _Ben_.” She sounds agonisingly hopeful, and a little bit like she’s about to cry. There’s a moment, where Ben almost says something, almost replies out of long buried instinct. He chokes out a sound, nothing close to a word, and then he just… runs. He takes one stumbling step around her, then another. She reaches out for him, gently, slowly, like she’s afraid she’ll spook him if she moves too fast. He avoids her extended hand, almost trips over his own legs as he turns and runs away.

She calls out after him, or he thinks she does, at least. He can’t hear anything over the sound of his own pulse thundering in his ears. He runs, and likely almost gets hit by traffic a few times, frantic as he is to get as far away from her as he can. He runs and runs and runs until the blind panic recedes, and he’s able to look around and recognise where he is. Miraculously, he’s not too far from his apartment building. It takes what feels like forever before he’s safe in his apartment, door firm behind his back. He’d spent far too long fumbling his keys in shaky hands, barely able to unlock the door.

And yet, it takes him less than five minutes to break every piece of dishware he owns.

Door closed behind him, Ben took a couple of deep breaths. Rubbed his hands over his face, trying to calm down. He can work through this, he can be calm. He’s been doing so well, lately. Hasn’t had an incident since before he left Seattle. Hasn’t picked a fight with anyone since he arrived in New York. Hasn’t even wanted to. He’s mature, responsible. He’s able to deal with an accidental run in with his mother like the adult he is, rather than like a child. Never mind the fact that he ran away, again.

Seems like that’s all he ever does, is run away. From his problems, his family, from SoCal and Seattle and half the places on the west coast. He runs and runs, and it never achieves anything - the only thing that happens is that he has to start over, angry and exhausted from running. Blood rushes through his veins in a rhythm similar to the way his feet had pounded against the pavement minutes before; heavy, quick. Frantic.

He’s still agitated, nowhere near calm. Thinking about it clearly isn’t going to help. He kicks off his shoes as he crosses his apartment - can’t run without shoes, can’t be a pathetic fucking coward if he’s barefoot - and opens the cupboard, grabs a plate. He’s going to make himself some food, a sandwich maybe. Give himself something to do other than think - other than _run_. All he has to do is place the plate on the counter and go to the fridge. Easy. Simple. Not even he could fuck it up.

He slams the plate down on the counter, instead. Watches the cheap ceramic crack as he bashes it against the hard surface again, and again, with increasing force until he’s doing nothing but slamming his clenched fist against shattered ceramic. There are a few larger pieces left, and he turns and throws them at the far wall. Breaking the plate hadn’t helped; instead, he feels angrier.

There’s a second, just after he throws the plate, and before it hits the wall, where all Ben can think is ‘ _what the fuck am I doing_?’ It’s then, in that split second of clarity he gets at the start of an outburst, when he needs to make the decision to stop. Take a deep breath, then another. Remove himself from the situation. Call Phasma, or Finn, or fucking _Hux_ if he has to. Listen to them talk about something that has nothing to do with the complex whorl of emotions constricting his chest and clouding his brain.

It took years for him to recognise and utilize the calm before the storm, to stop himself before he hurt someone or something.

And, for the first time in years, Ben ignores it.

The plate fragment breaks even further upon impact, and he reaches for another one. It shatters just like the first, and then he’s ruined another one, and another one, until he’s onto bowls, then glassware. It’s not a large apartment, lounge, dining and kitchen all one room, and the broken pieces of his crockery cover the floor. He’s not wearing shoes, and his hands are cut up, blood slowly welling to the surface of his skin and sliding down his fingers until specks of red join the shards of glass and porcelain.

His chest is heaving, pulse still roaring in his ears, and Ben can’t remember how he cut up his hands. Isn’t sure whether it was with the first plate, or with the glass. Barely remembers anything after he gave in to the bottomless pit of anger that’s been a constant presence in his life, for almost as long as he can remember. He’s shaking, as well. It’s been so long since he gave in to the pure, unadulterated rage that beats like a second heart in his chest that’s he’d forgotten what it was like, after.

It’s terrible.

His memories of the past however long are little more than a blur; over everything there’s a miasma of black anger that he can’t think past, can’t see past. People usually describe anger as red, personify it as red, but it’s never been that way for Ben. It’s always been a haze creeping in at the edge of his consciousness, black and toxic. It creeps up his throat, chokes him, turns his words into feral sounds to match the cruelty thrumming in his veins.

Ben almost killed a man, once, and he doesn’t remember anything about it.

There’s bile in the back of his throat as he sinks down onto the floor, ignoring the way glass and plate fragments stab at him through his jeans, rip at his bare feet. His hands are shaking so hard it’s a miracle he’s able to get his phone out of his pocket; almost locks himself out of his phone, because he can’t get his fingers to follow the correct pattern.

“-lo? Kylo? You there?” Time’s still a foreign concept, distorting so badly in his anger that it always takes a good while for him to understand the way it works again. He doesn’t know how long Phasma tried to get his attention for, but he swallows and answers her when he’s drawn back to reality.

“Yeah. I’m at my place. I… blacked out.” It’s a hard thing to say, especially to her. But it’s easier saying it to Phasma than it would be to anyone else. She’s seen him at his worst, the feral beast which lurks under his skin, and the vague human impression that counts as his best. She says something, muffled like she’s talking to someone else.

“Is there anyone else with you?” She sounds worried, but it doesn’t quite penetrate through the fog lingering in his brain.

“No.”

“We’ll be there soon. Do you need me to stay on the phone?” Probably.

“I don’t think I locked the front door.” Is all he says, before he loses his grip on the phone. It lands in his lap, sparing the screen from a hard impact. Ben stays mostly in his own head until Phasma arrives, time eventually rearranging itself into something meaningful just so he gets to experience minute after excruciating minute reflecting on his failures.

The front door opens, eventually, Phasma striding in, followed by a stoic looking Hux. The pair of them evaluate the situation for a few moments, before they start towards him, glass and ceramic crunching under oxfords and boots. Phasma crouches down in front of him, gently taking his hands in hers, while Hux uses a tea towel to wipe the kitchen bench clean. After a few seconds he crouches down on Ben’s other side, face completely impassive. They work together like a well oiled machine; two differently sized hands slide underneath his thighs, with each hands matching partner resting on his back.

“One, two, three.” They mutter together, and heft him off the floor in one smooth motion, setting him on the counter Hux’d just cleared.

“I’ll get the kit.” Phasma says, and heads off for the bathroom, while Hux strips his suit jacket off, and lays it on the counter. Then, he starts to roll up his sleeves. He’s only ever seen the man’s forearms when he’s been washing up. Hasn’t even seen the man naked. How pathetic is that? Phasma emerges with the first aid kit before Hux finishes rolling his sleeves up, so he pries his eyes away.

“I assume you’ve got tweezers?” Ben nods at the moderately sized tin in her hands. He’s got about three pairs of tweezers, actually. He’d kept losing them, back in Seattle, and would buy another pair, only to find most of them when he was packing. They’d all gone in the kit, about eight of them. Since then, they’d started to wander off again, so for all he knows they might’ve all disappeared.

Evidently, there are at least two pairs, since she passes one over to Hux, and they both set to work picking slivers of Ben’s kitchen out of his hands. It stings, almost hurts, but Ben doesn’t even twitch. He’s had worse things picked out of his open wounds before, and Phasma knows it. She’s working quickly, efficiently. Slightly too fast to be gentle, but not intentionally hurtful, either, and that’s what really counts. He’s too exhausted to care, either way. Hux, though, is being extraordinarily gentle. It’s clear he doesn’t know that these cuts are the least of the injuries Ben’s received over the years, and that he’s weathered much rougher first aid.

They don’t exactly spend much time talking, after all.

Ben can’t help but focus on Hux as the man works. They’d moved past the initial animosity into… whatever they were, now. Not friends, but friendly sometimes, when they were in the company of others. Ben rather likes him; likes the way he fucks, and the way he smiles. It’s odd, all the ways Ben likes him. He’s not sure what’ll happen, now. Doesn’t know how he’s going to touch Hux, after this. It’d always aroused him, when he thought about ruining Hux, dragging him down to Ben’s level. But this - the blood on his hands, the mess of his apartment - was a stark reminder that his was not a level you ever wanted to bring people.

Hux’d been right to look at him like he was less, the first time they met. It’d riled him, at the time, stabbed at his pride. It’d been too long since his last outburst, then; he’d forgotten exactly what he was. Is. How fucked up and unstable he could be.

What he _should_ do is keep his filthy hands to himself, let Hux continue to be his clean cut self, and ne’er the twain shall meet.

Ben’s rarely done what he was supposed to, though, and he doesn’t want to stop whatever he’s doing with Hux. So he keeps looking at Hux. He gives the man a slow once over, relishing the opportunity to look at him without Hux noticing. That’s when he spots something reaching out from underneath the neatly rolled cuffs of Hux’s white shirt. Ink. Tattoos. His sleeves are rolled up past his elbows, and Hux has tattoos.

“Hux.” The red-haired man doesn’t look up from what he’s doing, but he makes a noise to show that he’s listening.

“Nevermind.” Hux looks up at that, raising an eyebrow. Now’s not the right time to say something as inane as ‘ _you’ve got ink_ ,’ not when Hux is cleaning and sterilizing the cuts from Ben’s outburst. What he wants to do is lay Hux out, peel him out of his layers. He wants to run his large hands all over Hux’s smaller body. Want to have the freedom to touch and lick and kiss and bite as much as he wants.

He won’t say any of that though, because it’s never going to happen. Hux is never going to let Ben touch him, not after this.

“I don’t suppose you have a broom?” Hux asks, after a few minutes of silence.

“Dustpan and brush. Under the sink.” And Hux sets about sweeping up as much of the mess as he can, while Phasma digs the last piece of ceramic out of his foot and hops up on the counter next to Ben. They sit in silence, watching Hux clean up the ceramic shards. It’s a quick enough job, but the man doesn’t stop there. With a half annoyed huff, he moves on to tidying up the rest of the apartment. Ben’s not especially surprised that Hux thinks his apartment’s messy.

“What set you off?” She asks, quietly, after they’ve watched Hux clean half the apartment. He doesn’t bother to lie to her; they’ve been through too much for that.

“I… saw my mother.” Just saying it makes his heart ache in a way he’d forgotten it could. Phasma makes an inquiring noise, letting Ben decide if he wants to continue or not. He doesn’t know if he does, but opens his mouth anyway.

“I think about them, sometimes. Never thought I’d see them again.”

“And now you have.” Ben nods. He doesn’t say anything else, and Phasma remains quiet as well. Hux tidies up as much as he can, before returning to where they’re sitting on the bench. Hux sends a look at the cupboard under the sink, clearly thinking about the cleaning supplies held within, before he turns away and hoists himself up on to the counter on Ben’s other side. The three of them sit there for a long while, in silence.

“Don’t you have work?” Ben asks, eventually.

“Finn’s covering my shift, and Hux doesn’t work on Saturdays.” She tells him. Silence for another few minutes, and then,

“I’m hungry. Pizza?” They all agree or, no one disagrees, so Phasma orders pizza. They eat it on the kitchen bench, though Hux insists on paper towels as plates, seeing as there were no actual plates left for use. He’d originally asked for napkins, but Phasma’s loud laugh and Ben’s own, quiet huff of amusement had alerted him to that impossibility pretty quickly.

“We’re not leaving.” Phasma tells him at some point that afternoon, after they finish the pizza but before she and Hux help him limp to the couch.

And they don’t. They stay all afternoon, and night as well. Hux goes down to Phasma’s car to get his laptop, and they spend a couple of hours mindlessly watching movies. Half watching, in Ben’s case. He’s still half in his head, thinking about his family, much as he tries not to. They stay on the couch all night, and Ben stays awake. Couldn’t sleep if he tried, truthfully. Hux drops off some time after _Wrath of Khan_ , but Phasma stays awake, even though she should sleep, too. Unlike Hux, she actually has to be somewhere early in the morning. When he tells her so, she gives him a look he’s become very familiar with over the years.

So she stays awake with him, and when she has to leave, about twenty minutes after sunlight’s started to paint the walls of his apartment, she doesn’t bother to wake Hux. Most likely, she doesn’t want to leave him alone. Although, there’s a small chance Hux is a terrible morning person and she just doesn’t want to deal with him. The slight possibility makes Ben feel better.

“I’ll be back for him a bit before lunch.” Ben’s sure he looks betrayed, because she rolls her eyes.

“I’m sure the pair of you can be civil for a couple of hours. You don’t even have to talk.” She gives him a pointed look, before giving him a quick hug, pulling on her shoes, and leaving Ben alone with Hux.

The man’s still asleep, which at least puts off the ‘it’s been fun, but I’m not going to let your instability anywhere near my dick ever again’ conversation. A shame, because now that he knows Hux has tattoos hidden away, he wants to touch Hux more than ever. Ben hadn’t actually thought that possible, but it is. He wants to explore miles of pale skin, see if it’s just the one tattoo on his arm, or if Hux has more. If he has many. But he’s not going to try and sway Hux from his decision, would never try and pressure anyone into sex, just because he wanted them.

He doesn’t think about that, about all the things he won’t get to do with Hux. Forces his mind away from melancholy thoughts. Instead, Ben watches Hux as the sun rises properly. The dawn light sets Hux’s hair aflame, flickers over his fine facial features. He’s got freckles, here and there. Light, but there. He’s pretty to look at. More than pretty. So much more than Ben had assumed when they’d first met. Hux is gorgeous, and he has a nice laugh, and he’s much too good for Ben.

Eventually, Hux’s eyes open. There’s no fluttering beforehand, his features barely twitch. Ben has no time to look away, to pretend he hadn’t just been watching Hux sleep. They’ve been fucking for, what, six weeks? Maybe a bit more? It’s not even a relationship, is barely anything. Hux about to tell Ben he doesn’t want to fuck him at all, ever again, and Ben’s staring at him like an idiot.

But Hux doesn’t scowl, or cuss him out, or tell him to stop being such a weirdo. Instead, he smiles, faintly.

“Morning.” His voice is sleep rough, and Ben’s heart beats out of place for a moment.

“Morning.” Hux looks around. For all that he’d come awake suddenly, without warning, he was still obviously sleep addled. His eyes are sleepy, still, and he looks around the open space of the combined living, dining and kitchen area four times before he turns back to Ben and asks,

“Where’s Phasma?”

“She said she’d be back around lunch to pick you up.” Ben says, and he nods languidly, clearly still processing. He’s clearly not a morning person, but he’s not cranky about it. He’s just… adorable, is the only way Ben can describe it. He’s slow with his thoughts, with his speech, even his movements.

“I need coffee.” Hux finally says, looking at Ben through bleary eyes. They’re green, this morning. Ben likes it.

“I don’t have any. I usually go to a place down the street.” Hux nods, and levers himself off the couch. He stretches, cracking his back as he does, and Ben winces at the sound.

“You could’ve taken my bed.” Hux shakes his head, bending over to pull his oxfords on. Ben shoves his feet into his own boots, tying them up loosely. He’s glad he’s not rostered on for today, that he’s not in any hurry and doesn’t have to attempt any sort of normal mental state. He’s pretty sure that, had he been rostered, Phasma would have switched his shift. Ben grabs his keys, phone and wallet, and waits for Hux to do the same. The walk to the cafe is companionable, even though both Rey’s eyebrows shoot right up when he walks in with Hux.

Hux, who’s hair is visibly not perfect, mussed from sleeping upright on a lounge, in a wrinkled shirt without a jacket. Hux, with Ben hovering at his side in a way that some would label attentive; adoring, perhaps, though Ben would never say it himself - would never think it, either. Hux stumbles through his coffee order, clearly still half asleep. Ben’s delighted at Hux’s continued display of imperfection. And at the ridiculous amount of sugar the man takes in his coffee. On Ben’s takeaway cup, Rey’s drawn a huge winky face, and scribbled ‘ _he’s cute <3 <3 <3_’ on it. It’s stupid, but it makes Ben smile. Rey makes kissy faces at them as they leave. Hux doesn’t notice, too busy trying to become one with his coffee.

The walk back to the apartment is slow, even though Hux quickly wakes up with coffee in his hands. Ben’s not quite sure if it’s the coffee which wakes Hux up, or the five sugar packets he’d poured in, along with the vanilla syrup. They keep the ambling pace from their trip to the cafe. It’s much slower than the pace Ben usually walks at, but he doesn’t mind. Likes it. Walking side by side with Hux, the calm morning after the storm.

“Breakfast?” Ben asks, when they’re almost back at the apartment, and Hux appears to be processing things at his usual speed once more.

“Do you have things for pancakes?” Hux sounds almost… hopeful. Ben thinks for a second, before shaking his head. He doesn’t even have plates, any more.

“No, but there’s a corner store.” Ben angles his head towards the cross street they just passed, and Hux nods. Ben shops here often, when he only needs a few things, and can’t be bothered to walk further. Like Rey, the cashier here is familiar to him, though he doesn’t know her name. Wouldn’t know Rey’s name without Finn. And, like Rey, she raises her eyebrows when he walks in with Hux. She gives Ben what she seems to think is a surreptitious thumbs up, but Ben can tell from the smirk on Hux’s face that she was not at all subtle. At least he hadn’t noticed Rey’s kissy face, or the writing on Ben’s coffee, which Ben had taken care to hide with his hand. Ben would have never heard the end of it.

Soon enough, Ben’s carrying a small bag of things - including paper plates - and Hux has the milk.

They’re actually managing a conversation with has nothing to do with their jobs, or sex. Hux is, as Ben had always know, sharp and sarcastic, but it’s not so bad when he’s not using his cutting wit against Ben. Ben shifts closer, not because he can’t hear Hux just fine on the mostly empty street, but because he wants to be closer. Hux shifts his body so he’s angled towards Ben, who can’t help but turn towards Hux even further. By this point, he’s barely facing forward, and barely a hand's width separates them.

It’s then, when Ben’s admiring the way the early morning sun lights Hux’s eyes, and Hux can’t seem to keep his eyes off Ben’s lips, that Ben sees something behind them, from the corner of his eye. He looks on instinct, expecting a bird, or another pedestrian. Instead, it’s the older man with the salt and sand coloured beard. He’s staring at them, unashamedly. He doesn’t look away when Ben catches him, and that’s when Ben realises that he wasn’t being paranoid, at all. This man has been following him. After his episode yesterday, he’s not prepared to deal with this - he can’t. If he doesn’t get away from the man soon, he’s going to snap and do something he’ll regret forever.

Hux must see the way his eyes widen, the way his jaw clenches, because he’s pressing even closer to Ben, hand on his chest in a show of concern.

“Kylo, what’s wrong?” His voice is quiet enough that there’s no way the man heard it, and Ben replies at the same volume.

“The man behind us keeps following me. It’s been happening for weeks, but I wasn’t sure, except he’s watching us, right now. And I-” Embarrassingly, his voice cracks. Hux’s eyes narrow and he nods, the movement sharp and tight. He presses the milk into Ben’s chest, and he grabs hold of it. Then Hux turns away from Ben, and walks over to the man. Hux’s walks like he’s got a mind for murder, and Ben finds it inappropriately arousing.

“Why are you following my boyfriend?” Hux asks, loudly. The man blinks, opens his mouth, but Hux doesn’t give him a chance to say anything. Ben’s brain’s stuck on the word ‘boyfriend’ and misses part of the conversation. Most of the conversation, actually. He’s watching it, watching Hux glaring down at the middle aged man, scowling as he verbally flays him. The older man looks abashed, says something in return, but Ben doesn’t hear what he says because the word ‘boyfriend’ is still rattling around in his brain.

He thinks Hux calls the man all number of names, and threatens to call the cops, and also threatens to sue him. The man’s barely able to get a word in edgewise, and Ben thinks that this might be what it’s like to watch Hux in a courtroom. He’s intimidating, and fierce, and Ben wants to get the man back to his apartment and fuck him til he passes out.

“If we see you again, you will regret it, I assure you.” Hux’s tone is final, and he turns on his heel and stalks back towards Ben. He reaches his hand out and takes the milk from Ben’s unresisting fingers. With his other hand he grabs Ben’s free hand, entwines their fingers, and tugs Ben down the sidewalk without a look back.

The pace he sets is faster than the slow amble they’d been using partially because of Hux’s sleepy state, mainly because of the cuts on Ben’s feet, but he doesn’t complain. It's not especially painful, and the dull ache setting into his feet is nothing compared to what he's had before. Hux is holding his hand, furious on Ben’s behalf, and Ben’s more than a little hard inside his jeans. Hux doesn’t say anything, the rest of the walk back to the apartment. Ben has to provide him with directions, once, but the man doesn’t even say thank you. Not that Ben had expected him to; it’s still Hux, after all.

The door to the apartment closes behind them, and Hux explodes. Ben, not expecting the loud shout, almost trips taking off his shoes, but recovers swiftly. He unloads the shopping bag while Hux rants, taking the milk from Hux’s clenched fists and putting it into the fridge. He puts the empty take away cup with Rey’s message on the counter, to dry out and go with the others.

“How _dare_ he! That… that… pervert! Thinking he can just stalk you and get away with it. I am offended. This must be stressful for you, Kylo, I understand that, but I highly suggest going to the police. I can assure you that I will do everything in my power to make sure that man never comes near you again.” Hux is pacing in front of the door, never having moved away.

“And if he does, I will-” Ben never finds out what Hux would do, should the man follow him again, because he crosses the small space between them, and pulls Hux into a desperate, passionate kiss. Hux kisses his back eagerly, but looks a tad confused when he pulls away to gasp for air.

“Kylo?”

“You’re gorgeous, like this.” Ben says before he pulls Hux back into a kiss. Hux gets his hands under Ben’s shirt in short order, and soon enough he’s tugging it over Ben’s head. Ben’s own fingers start to fumble with the buttons of Hux’s wrinkled shirt, undoing the last button as Hux unzips Ben’s fly, slipping his hand inside. Ben pauses in his quest to get Hux’s shirt off fully, for once, and thrusts into Hux’s hand.

“You like it when I shout?” Hux asks, and Ben huffs a laugh. It’s on the tip of his tongue to say something stupid and ridiculous and mood ruining, but he bites down on the words ‘ _I like_ you’, and kisses Hux instead, pushing the sleeves down Hux’s arms. To throw the shirt off completely, Hux has to take his hand off Ben’s cock, but it’s worth it. Hux throws the shirt in the same direction as Ben’s. For the first time, Ben gets to run his hands down the smooth skin of Hux’s arms, from his shoulders down to his forearms and back up again.

Ben steps back, desperate to look at Hux properly, desperate to get Hux into his bed, desperate to get his hands all over Hux before the man remembers last night and how fucked up Ben truly is - and stops, eyes caught on Hux’s uncovered torso. With everything that’s happened since last night, Ben had forgotten the tattoo which he’d glimpsed on Hux’s arm. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget again, because it’s not just the one tattoo, the edge of some lettering that Ben can see curling it’s way around Hux’s elbow.

Ben can’t believe he’s never even suspected Hux of having a single tattoo, before, when he’s half covered in them. Ben’s not sure what he want to look at first - the anatomically correct heart tattooed directly over Hux’s heart, or the riot of colour that may have once been a half sleeve, but seems to have exploded out onto the right side of his chest as well. After a second, the riot of colour resolves itself into flowers. Dark brown eyes blink, once, completely taken aback. If asked, he never would have guessed that Hux would have flowers permanently etched into his skin.

After a second, Ben presses his fingers to Hux’s chest and traces the thick, black lines of the heart. He’ll start here, then move across to the other side of his chest, his arm. There’s one spot of colour, what looks to be a tiny drop of blood in a perpetual state of dripping from the cut off end of the pulmonary artery. It’s gruesome, but Ben rather likes it. Ben leans down and presses a kiss to it, and Hux’s hands come up to card through Ben’s hair. Ben looks up, and Hux smiles at him. A gentle tug, and Ben straightens. Hux might be smiling, but that doesn’t mean anything. Ben can imagine him smiling as he tells Ben that he never wants to touch him again, as well as he can imagine him scowling, and completely, horrifically indifferent.

Ben’s spent all night imagining every way Hux could tell him that he never wants someone as unstable as Ben anywhere near him, ever again.

“Kylo, unless I’m very much mistaken, you have a bed.” Hux says, and Ben nods.

“And yet we’re standing here. As much as I like defiling various pieces of furniture with you, I’m rather inclined to seize this opportunity.” Ben grins, inordinately pleased, and pulls Hux towards his bedroom. The door’s been closed since before Hux and Phasma arrived the previous night, and Ben doesn’t think about the mess his room is until he opens the door and Hux’s face creases into a frown.

There’s a pile of unfolded, clean clothes stacked haphazardly on the tall boy he’d salvaged from an alley shortly after he first arrived with Phasma’s help, dirty clothes strewn about his floor as a way to differentiate between clean and dirty. Ben’s bed is just a mattress on the floor, and his bedside table is a stack of books with an old, dirty mug stacked on top, his phone charger wrapped around it’s base. The entire pile looks on the verge of toppling over, stubbornness likely being the only thing holding it up.

Ben’s reminded of the fact that Hux had cleaned the main part of his apartment with ease last night. Hux brushes past him, steps around the clothes on the floor, and pick up the mug. His nose wrinkles when he looks inside of it, and then he’s walking past Ben and back into the main room. Ben leans against the doorframe and watches Hux walk away from him, eyes catching on the dark lettering circling his left elbow. He’s able to read it, finally. ‘ _Goodbye_ ’ it tells him, as he watches Hux deposit the cup into the sink and turn on the tap. Hux braces himself against the counter, and Ben admires the way the light from the kitchen window sets fire to his hair.

Admires the strong lines of Hux’s body, as well. He’s smaller than Ben in almost every way, shorter, slimmer, and Ben loves it. He likes that he can wrap his hands around Hux’s waist and touch his fingers together if he tries hard enough. Even with his slighter build, Hux is able to make Ben beg for it, and the thought of it sends a shiver down Ben’s spine. Hux shuts off the water after a moment, wipes his hands on the dish towel methodically. As he walks back over to Ben, the taller man notices that Hux’s ears are turning pink, to match the flush spreading over his cheeks.

“Sorry.” Hux says, not looking at Ben, as though he’s embarrassed. Ben hooks his fingers in the waistband of Hux’s pants, tugs him forward until they’re chest to chest.

“For what?” Hux glares up at him, fringe falling in front of his eyes as he does.

“For being completely unable to ignore a dirty mug when we’re supposed to be exploring your bed.” Hux is legitimately embarrassed by this, Ben realises. It’s kind of endearing.

“You pulled glass and ceramic out of my hands and feet last night because I can’t process emotions like an adult - you’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about.” Hux quirks an eyebrow, and places his hands on Ben’s forearms, slowly sliding his hands up until they’re resting on Ben’s shoulders.

“This isn’t a competition, Kylo.” Hux reprimands him.

“It could be.” Ben smirks, and Hux rolls his eyes.

“Take off your pants and get on the bed.” He orders, and Ben does as he’s told, throwing his jeans in the doesn’t-need-to-be-washed-yet corner. Then he’s laying back on his mattress, shoving his pillow against the wall, and propping himself up on his elbows.

“Give me a show.” Ben asks, in return. Hux gives Ben a flat look as he unzips his trousers, belt still near the lounge where he’d taken it off last night. Hux shakes his hips in a move that’s more amusing than arousing, and his pants slide down to pool at his ankles, revealing another tattoo. It’s a mermaid, dark haired and coy, seated on a pile of bones.

“Mermaids drown sailors. Kill them.” Hux explains, even though Ben hadn’t even been contemplating asking about the tattoo. After Hux’s short explanation, he’s kind of curious, though. Hux sheds his briefs, and then he’s completely naked. He’s half hard as he crawls onto the bed, sliding against Ben as he does so.

“And why did you want a killer mermaid on your thigh?” He asks, finally able to put his hand on Hux’s right arm. He pulls it closer to admire the floral design and -

“My father was navy.” Hux tells him, matter of fact, and for a second it distracts Ben from the cartoon characters and punk symbols dotted between the flowers. Now’s not the time to think of the implications of that statement, so he doesn’t. Instead, he drags his fingers from the pink carnation on top of Hux’s shoulder, down past a yellow flower with orange stamen to the four bars of Black Flag to and then follows a long sprig of rosemary down the inside of Hux’s upper arm, by passing the rest of the sleeve for now.

“Why Hux, it’s almost like you have a personality!” Hux gives Ben possibly the most unimpressed stare he’s ever received. Ben huffs a laugh, and pulls Hux until they’re pressed together, chest to knee.

“Do you want to spend all morning admiring my tattoos and insulting me, or do you want to turn over so I can eat you out until you cry?” Ben’s mouth goes dry, and he almost headbutts Hux in his scramble to turn over and present himself.

 

 

Ben makes pancakes in the nude, but Hux pulls his underwear back on and washes the sole survivor of his rampage. Hux arranges paper plates and paper towel for them to eat off, and spends at least a minute washing his hands once they’ve finished, but soon enough they’re back in Ben’s bed, Hux with his head on the pillow, and Ben resting his head on Hux’s shoulder, tracing all the tattoos he can reach.

“You’re so fascinated by my tattoos.” Hux says, as inspects the half sleeve once more. Ben likes tattoos, but he’s never found them especially erotic or enticing. But he’d also never imagined Hux with any sort of body modification, and to have a whole host of them suddenly revealed when he’d categorized the man as a complete stick in the mud… Ben wants to touch and taste every inch of them. Every inch of Hux, as well.

“I like them.”

“You’ve got your own.” Hux says, as though Ben needs reminding. Hux traces his fingers over the stick and pokes on Ben’s arms. Spaceships and lightning and crosses and skulls. Half of them are faded, the impermanent permanency of it reflecting most of Ben’s life. The designs are a bit childish, done in the first couple of years after he ran away, fifteen and sixteen and seventeen and absolutely in over his head.

“I like yours.” Ben repeats and Hux grins at him, twisting down to kiss him. It’s soft and slow again. Ben’s never noticed before but here, cuddling in his bed, it feels unbearably intimate. The way Hux is allowing him to explore his body, how they’d knocked shoulders while eating - he’d watched Hux wash up. Ben wants to be freaked out by it, by how close he feels to a man he doesn’t even really know, but he honestly doesn’t have the energy for it. Maybe tomorrow he’ll lose it, think of all the times when they didn’t immediately leave the vicinity of each other once they’d come, and the sweet kisses which Ben craves.

But not today. It’s a lazy Sunday morning, he doesn’t feel like shit after the way he’d fucked up the night before, and an attractive man is willing to indulge him. For once, Ben’s not going to go out of his way to make trouble. Instead, he relaxes further into Hux’s hold and, once they finish kissing, continues to run his fingers over Hux’s bicep.

“It’s bird’s-foot trefoil.” Hux says, when Ben spends a while tracing over the yellow and orange flower above the Black Flag logo.

“I’ve never seen someone with so many different flowers on them.” Ben says idly, tapping the four bars before moving down to the next flower. It’s pink-red, as opposed to the deep pink of the carnation.

“It’s a tribute to my mother, I suppose. She was absolutely mad for flowers and their meanings. The one you’re touching is hollyhock, which means ambition, and the bird’s-foot trefoil is supposed to symbolise revenge. It’s all rubbish, of course. Look at a different book, or live in a different country, and it all changes.”

“But you still know them, the meanings.”

“Of course.” Around the hollyhock is a flower Ben recognises, he runs the pad of his thumb over the light purple cluster as he says the name.

“Monkshood. Wolfsbane.” He wouldn’t have been a rebellious teen worth his salt if he hadn’t known what it was.

“Aconite. Meaning misanthropy.” Hux adds. There’s a small anarcho-punk circle a symbol etched between the aconite and the next flower, both of them red, though the flower is darker than the bright red anarchy symbol.

“Amaryllis. Pride.” Hux says of the dark red flower, lifting his arm and twisting so Ben can see it properly, and the familiar cartoon characters below it. There’s the titular character from Rocko’s Modern Life, and the two beavers from The Angry Beavers. Surrounding the feet of the three animals is another cluster of blue-purple and white flowers, which fill in the spaces around a pair of yellow and red flowers and Oblina from Aaahh!!! Real Monsters. Hux names the conglomeration of mixed white and blue-purple flowers as lobelia, malevolence, and the yellow flowers with red in their center as gladiolus, which had made Hux roll his eyes and do something Ben hadn’t yet heard from him - a mumble.

“What?” With Hux’s fair colouring, it becomes so amazingly obvious when he’s embarrassed, because red spreads from his cheeks to his ears and Ben’s delighted to see it twice in one morning.

“Gladiolus. It means strength of character, honour and or conviction.” The temptation to poke at Hux about it is rather large, but after a few seconds Ben decides to move his fingers and mind onwards, past the Dead Kennedy’s logo and instantly recognisable Misfits’ skull, to the last of the flowers. In another circumstance he might’ve made Hux more uncomfortable, called into question how, exactly, the gladiolus matched Hux. Currently, though, Hux is running his left hand up and down Ben’s side, and Ben hasn’t felt the need to thrash away from the close proximity.

“Marigold. My ‘birth flower.’” Hux rolls his eyes as he says it, and Ben cups Hux’s elbow, which the outer petals of the orange-yellow flower bloom over. His thumb wraps around the only flower which remains unidentified, and the only one which isn’t bright with colour. Instead, they’re just a plain black line tattoo, with almost invisible white highlights in the petals. Hux’s skin is pale enough that, if the light hadn’t caught it, Ben could have missed it entirely. There are four of them, just above Hux’s inner elbow, each in different states of unfurling.

“Birth flower?” Ben asks, and Hux heaves a sigh.

“Ridiculous, I know. It’s supposed to exemplify elegance and devotion and be warm and fierce, in the British style at least. I never bothered to learn what my American birth flower is.” Ben likes it, thinks it might be a good fit for the older man, stretches across Hux’s chest and presses a kiss to the base of Hux’s throat so the words don’t spill out of his mouth. Hux hums at the feeling, shifts in order to give Ben more access.

“The rosemary is for remembrance.” Hux says, of the tattoo which stretches almost from his armpit to his elbow. Then he grabs Ben’s chin and pulls him up for a proper kiss. It’s not long before Ben has his legs thrown over Hux’s hips, and he completely forgets to ask about the meaning of the last flower.

 

 

“How’s your day been?” Ben asks, cautiously, the next Tuesday. He’s just placed Hux’s drink on the counter, and the other man looks taken aback. Ben knows how he feels. Small talk isn’t really their thing. Before the weekend just gone, _talking_ hadn’t really been their thing, either.

“It was good, I suppose.” Awkward silence hovers between them for a moment before Hux continues.

“There was a small mix up this morning. Thannison, the intern, gave me the wrong stack of folders, and I ended up with Unamo’s files instead of my own. When I notified him of what had happened, I think he had a breakdown. When I went to check on him, Mitaka shooed me away. Apparently my presence wouldn’t have been conducive to Thannison’s mental state. Unamo then said that I was the opposite of comforting.” Ben crosses his arms on the bar and leans forward.

“They’re not wrong, but I like it.” Ben tells him.

“That’s nice Kylo, but you’re deranged.” Hux’s smile takes the sting out of the words, and he leans forward a well, pressing a chaste kiss to Ben’s lips. It’s the first time they’ve kissed where anyone can see, and the thought makes Ben’s heart beat double time. When they part, his eyes dart around the bar, but no one’s paying them any attention. No one but Phasma, who’s smirking at them from where she’s pouring a beer.

“Well, I’m surprised.” She says, flat tone letting everyone know that she’s anything but. She hands over the beer and walks the few steps towards them, leaning her hip against the bar.

“And here I was thinking you were a homophobe, Kylo.” She says. Ben furrows his brow, completely confused, because that makes no sense. Phasma’s known him long enough that she’s seen him go home with all manner of people, and even if she hadn’t Ben makes no secret of his lack of preference. From the corner of his eye, he can see Hux turning slowly turning red. He turns back to face him, and Hux avoid his eyes, picking up his glass to fiddle with as a distraction.

“What?” He must sound decently horrified, because Hux looks away from the intense staring competition he’s got going with his drink to look at Ben.

“The first time I was here when you were on shift and I checked you out, you were… distinctly unimpressed, to put it mildly.” Hux sounds very prissy and condescending. Ben’s starting to realise that that’s just what he sounds like when he’s uncomfortable, rather than through any desire to make Ben feel like dirt.

“Imagine my surprise when you kissed me.” Hux adds, and Ben’s very confused. Why the hell had Hux kissed him back, then? He’s glad that the other man did, of course, but he doesn’t understand _why_. The start of the evening rush probably isn’t the time to talk about it, and Ben attempts to make a mental note to bring it up later. Maybe when they’re post coital, since Hux hasn’t yet rushed off half dressed in an attempt to get away from Ben. Before the subject gets changed, or he has to go help a customer, Ben’s got a point he feels needs to be addressed.

“You were checking me out?” Hux raises an eyebrow whilst Phasma cackles, slapping Ben’s shoulder a few times in her mirth.

“Yes, Kylo. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but several of your shirts display you very well.” Hux’s blush deepens as he gives the compliment. Ben turns to Phasma and frowns.

“You knew.” It’s not a question. Much of Phasma’s behaviour makes sense in light of this revelation.

“It’s been fun listening to the pair of you bitch each other out.” She smiles wistfully, as though either of them are going to stop bitching about the other. As though they’re friends, instead of people who are friendly with each other occasionally, and have sex frequently. It’s not like they usually see each other more than a once a week, and they’re not going to start hanging out and holding hands and _dating_.

“I’m still going to bitch about you.” Ben tells Hux, who chuckles.

“How convenient, as I won’t be changing the way I talk about you at all.” The older man says, and Ben smiles, sure that Hux doesn’t have any false ideas about what they’re doing with each other. Shortly after, Hux follows Phasma into the back room for their weekly dinner. Hux pats his ass as he passes by, and Ben almost drops a glass at the unexpected contact.

As has become routine, Phasma comes out roughly half hour later without Hux, and Ben goes to have his dinner break. Before Ben reaches the door to the back room, Phasma catches him by the corner of his apron, and sends sends him a flat look.

“Stop having sex in my back room.” And then she grins, wide and wicked.

“While there are customers in the bar, at least. I don’t care what the pair of you do after hours.” Ben grins at her, pleased with her implicit permission, and heads into the back room where Hux is waiting for him, seated in one of the chairs. He looks up from his phone when Ben comes in, and gives his lap a quick pat. Ben walks over, more than willing to settle himself right where Hux had indicated, but stops when he sees that Hux isn’t on the cactus chair. From the look of the three vacant chairs Hux is on Finn’s newly professed favourite.

“You have to switch seats first.” Hux raises his eyebrow, and Ben pats the backrest of the cactus chair.

“Why on earth do I need to change seats?” Hux asks, bemused, even as he stands up and switches chairs. Ben slides into his lap, sliding his arms around Hux’s shoulders in a relaxed embrace.

“I promised Finn we wouldn’t defile his new favourite chair.” Ben explains.

“Of course he has a favourite chair.” Hux is clearly amused, and then pulls Ben in for a kiss. For once, a dinner break spent with Hux doesn’t end in orgasm. Instead, they make out like teenagers for twenty minutes, and then Hux hangs over Ben’s back and annoys him while he’s eating his microwavable cannelloni.

 

 

It’s Friday night, and they’ve just herded the last patron through the front doors. Ben expects the usual routine; chatting as they clean up, count the til, lock up, then they’ll head to Ben’s car and he’ll drop Phasma home before swinging back around to his own apartment block. It’d still not quite cold enough to justify the hassle of parking, but he can’t deny that it’s easier to drive home at night than to walk or catch public transport.

“Well, I’m off. Hot date.” She says, completely destroying Ben’s idea of how the night’s going to go.

“What? You’re going on a date? It’s quarter past four.” Ben squints at her, and she laughs, pulling on her coat.

“I don’t have a date.” She tells him. Ben leans against the broom he’s been using to sweep, and sends her quizzical look. The still unlocked bar door opens, and Hux steps in, along with a gust of icy wind. Phasma smirks at him while Hux forces the door shut against the wind, shoving his ungelled hair out of his face.

“You do. And an empty bar. Lucky.” She tells him as she heads to the door, greeting Hux with a smirk before taking her leave. Ben stays leant against the broom and watches as Hux locks the doors behind Phasma and then crosses the bar to stand in front of Ben.

“I’ve still got a while before I’m finished.” He tells Hux, who shrugs, unbuttoning the great coat he’s wearing over his suit.

“I can wait.”

“If you want. You didn’t want to talk to Phasma, though?” He asks, even as he resumes sweeping. He’s going to mop, once he finishes sweeping. He’s already wiped down all of the tables, so after that all he’s got left is the till. Hux seats himself on one of the bar stools and settles in to watch.

“Why on Earth would I want to talk to Phasma at four in the morning?” A pause, then, “Kylo, you’re really not good at this, are you?” He looks reluctantly amused.

“So…”

“I’m here for you, Kylo. Now, tell me about how hellishly long your shift has been and how many people threw up in the bathroom as I take a nap on the bar.” He doesn’t move to lay his head against the bar and instead watches Ben as he listens to him. It’s almost like chatting with Phasma, even though he never has to tell Phasma how his shift’s gone. No one had thrown up on the floor of the bathroom, but the tell tale smell had lingered near the last cubicle. It hadn’t been an exciting shift, and he’s finished talking before he’s finished mopping.

“What about you? How’s your day?” Ben asks, wringing the mop out before slapping it against the floor and continuing.

“Mitaka’s trying to work up the courage to ask Thanisson out, properly. But I’m sure that Thanisson has no idea. Do you’ve any advice? Everyone in the office is giving m-Mitaka advice, even though it’s _completely_ unnecessary and he can certainly manage to secure the attentions of the object of his affections _without_ their well intentioned meddling.” Ben hums as he mops, considering the situation.

“I’m not the best person to ask. I’m surprised that my advice to Finn hasn’t backfired. But it doesn’t seemed to have helped, either.” With that, he finishes mopping, and wrings the excess water back into the bucket, before leaning down and picking up the bucket. Hux follows him as he takes them both into the back, setting the mop down and pouring the dirty water down the drain.

“I’d still like to know your thoughts.” Ben turns around as Hux approaches, so that Hux presses against his front, rather than his back.

“I think that I still have to count up the til.” Ben says, pecking Hux on the lips before moving past him and back out into the bar.

“Honestly Kylo, you must have some input. Everybody else does.” Ben mumbles to himself as he counts the til, counting quietly to make sure he doesn’t fuck up. It doesn’t take long before he’s finished, and as he walks into the back room with the til and end of day report, Hux flicks off the lights to the main bar. Closing the safe, Ben thinks he might have a reasonable suggestion for Mitaka. He leans against the table, and waits for Hux to appear. They could finish the conversation and move on to much more enjoyable topics. Hux does not walk through the door. Ben waits for two minutes and thirteen seconds, according to the old clock on the wall, before he leaves the back room in search of Hux.

The bar’s dark apart from the light spilling out from behind Ben, illuminating Hux. He’s seated on one of the bar stools, waiting for Ben.

“Hux? What are you doing?” Ben asks, instead of stumbling over in the dark and potentially breaking glasses and bottles if he trips.

“The bar’s empty.”

“Yeah. So?”

“I’m quite sure we’ve got Phasma’s permission.” Ben squints at Hux, before his mouth literally drops open in shock.

“Not to fuck out here!” He sounds exactly as scandalised as he feels and Hux laughs at him. His teeth catch the light as he laughs. After a moment, Ben lets out an amused sound, as well. Hux is probably right that Phasma wouldn’t mind, as long as they cleaned up afterwards. He was just surprised, is all. Ben thinks about it for a moment, before extending his hands and cautiously leaving the door way. It’s not like he hasn’t done worse things than have sex in his place of employment. The door falls shut behind him, only a sliver of light visible underneath it.

Ben walks into the gloom, almost completely blind after the brightness of the back room light. Now there’s nothing more than the line of white in the space between the door and the floor, and the light of the street lamps coming through the windows. His large hands find the bar, and he uses them as a guide, until he’s able to round the bar and come to stand in front of Hux. He’s barely more than a dark shape against a darker background.

“Is Thanisson interested?” Ben asks. Hux’s hands press against Ben’s sides, and the taller man jumps at the sudden, unexpected contact.

“I believe so.” Ben nods, even though Hux likely can’t see it.

“Then I guess he should just go for it. The worst thing that can happen is Mitaka gets turned down.” Hux rucks up Ben’s shirt in order to press cool hands to his warm skin, and Ben moves closer. Hux leans forward and presses his mouth gently against Ben’s shoulder, kissing across until he gets to the bare skin of Ben’s neck.

“What did you tell him?” Ben asks, tilting his head back to give Hux more room to work.

“What?” Hux asks, distracted, licking and sucking at Ben’s throat.

“Mitaka. What did you tell him to do?” Hux pulls back with a quiet ‘ _ah_ ’ and his fingers start to tap against Ben’s sides.

“I told him to assess the situation and then adjust his strategy accordingly. I- He’s run into a few bumps.” Ben nods again.

“That’s good advice.”

“Yes. Do you want to continue talking about my work colleagues, or can we continue.” Hux can’t see it in the dark, but Ben smirks. The temptation to ask more about Mitaka and Thanisson is large, just to annoy Hux. He doesn’t, and instead searches out Hux’s mouth for a proper kiss. It starts out the way they all seem to, lately; lovely and slow, deep enough to make Ben weak at the knees. After a few moments, Ben changes the pace, nips at Hux’s bottom lip a bit too hard.

Hux’s breath hitches and Ben grins, positively wicked. They’ve got the entire bar to themselves. He wonders how many tables he they can fuck against before it gets too much. Maybe he can have Hux on top of the bar. Ben laughs at the thought of telling Finn, at the look on his friend’s face. All that can come later; right now Ben knows exactly what he wants.

Hux’s hands grip harder on his waist as he shifts, before loosening when the other man realises Ben’s sinking to his knees. Hux places his hands in Ben’s hair, stroking appreciatively as Ben undoes his belt and fly. Hux is mostly soft when Ben pushes his underwear down, but it’s clear he’s very quickly becoming interested. Ben looks up instinctively, but it’s dark and he can’t see much more than the shape of Hux.

Ben sets about teasing Hux to hardness, licking and kissing up and down his length. Then, with absolutely no warning, he takes Hux into his mouth, relaxing his throat and pressing his nose against the red hairs at Hux’s base. Hux swears, hands fisting in Ben’s hair. Ben pulls back, wrapping a hand around Hux and pumping him slowly. He’s not sure what he wants more; mutual blow jobs or one of them being bent over somewhere. Both ideas are enticing, and the weight of Hux in his hand isn’t helping him decide. It just makes him want more, which does worse than nothing for his thought processes.

Ben takes the head into his mouth and sucks, tongue flicking over the slit. Hux moans his name, and Ben feel arousal shoot straight down his spine at the sound. He takes Hux all the way in again, swallowing around his length and eliciting more sounds from Hux. Ben pulls back enough to breathe before sliding back down, feeling tears well in his eyes as he does so.

“Good boy.” Hux groans, hand falling from Ben’s hair to cup his cheek, and Ben feels his stomach roll. He moves off Hux’s dick as fast as physically possible, fast enough he loses balance and ends up sprawled on his ass in the dark. He’s thankful Hux never tried to hold his head down, hadn’t decided to start then, else Ben would have lashed out.

“Kylo?” Hux asks, concerned, and Ben shakes his head, pressing the back of his hand across his mouth until the urge to wretch fades. He hears more than sees Hux crouch down, and takes a deep breath in order to stay still and not skitter backwards.

“Kylo I’m going to need you to talk to me. Can you do that?” Hux doesn’t move closer, and Ben slowly moves his hand away from his mouth.

“Yeah. I’m okay.” He lies. Hux raps his knuckles against the wood of the floor, making an unimpressed noise.

“Clearly not.” Ben can hear the absolute silence of the bar, past his racing heartbeat. It continues unabated as he calms down and, eventually, sits up.

“I… you can’t… call me that. Don’t call me that.” Ben tells Hux, knowing the man’s insistence on verbal communication.

“Alright, Kylo. Do you need help up? Or would you prefer if I didn’t touch you?” Ben blinks at Hux’s outline, cocking his head to the side.

“What? I’m fine. Let’s keep going.” Ben reaches for Hux, one groping hand quickly finding a knee and sliding up Hux’s inner thigh. His hand is quickly caught by Hux, who wraps both of his around it.

“Kylo, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Ben scowls, ripping his hand away from Hux’s.

“Why the fuck not?” It’s easier to be angry than scared, easier to ignore the way his skin feels too tight when he’s got someone to fight.

“Are you even hard anymore?” Hux answers Ben’s question with one of his own - one that is completely irrelevant, as far as Ben’s concerned. So what he’s gone soft in his own jeans - he doesn’t need to be hard to get Hux off, and tells him so.

“Kylo that’s… no. No, I’m not still hard after watching you almost have a panic attack in the middle of blowing me. Even if I was, I would never think about asking you to continue.”

“You’re not asking, I’m offering.”

“Kylo-”

“What, am I not good enough for you now that you’ve seen how fucked up I am with your own eyes.” Hux makes a noise of pure frustration, and Ben can imagine the expression on his face.

“You- fine. Fine. If you want, come here and we can try again.” Hux shifts, and a soft thud alerts Ben to the fact that Hux had dropped onto his ass from the crouch. Ben takes a breath, and another one, before slowly crawling the small distance to where Hux is waiting, legs spread. Ben swallows heavily and then finds Hux’s knees with his hands, sliding them up incrementally. He’s very carefully not breathing heavily, not wanting to give away how tense he is. Instead, he’s barely breathing at all, a stark counterpoint to Hux’s even breaths.

His hands reach Hux’s upper thighs, and he knows that Hux’s dick lay directly between both of them. He pauses, working up the nerve to grab the man’s cock again, before finally starting to move his hand. He doesn’t get more than a finger's width before Hux has placed a hand on top of his, again.

“Kylo.” His voice is loud in the quiet room, and Ben sighs, half in annoyance, half in relief. He’s sure he could have continued, could have gotten Hux off - he’s just not sure if he’d ever be able to touch him again, after. And he wants to.

“I know you said you wanted to but-” Ben cuts Hux off again, but he’s sure it’s only because the room is otherwise entirely silent. Ben’s quiet enough that Hux mightn’t have heard him, otherwise.

“Hux I’m sorry. I- I can’t.” Ben can feel the tremors running through his hands, where they rest on Hux’s thighs, and he’s sure the other man can as well.

“You’ve nothing to apologise for.” Ben tilts forward until his head rests in the junction of Hux’s neck and shoulder, practicing his breathing. Inhale, exhale, focus on that, on breathing, not on the past. Hux raises the hand not on Ben’s own hand and places it on his back.

“Is this okay?” He asks, and Ben mumbles a ‘yes’ in between one inhale and the next. Hux gently rubs soothing circles into his back. Ben loses track of time, has no idea of how long they stay there before he’s capable of pulling back.

“Feeling alright?” Hux asks, and Ben shrugs, before clearing his throat in order to answer.

“Like shit. But not as bad as I was.”

“Okay. Can you stand? How are your knees?” Ben’s knees hurt, after so long on the hard floor, but he staggers to his feet easily enough. Hux stands easily, fumbling with his fly in the dark, before Ben hears his hand patting against the wood of the bar. The noise softens as Hux finds his coat, and then a hand reaches out and wraps around Ben’s elbow.

“Phasma said you drove, when she texted me.” Not really a question, but Ben answers anyway.

“Yeah.”

“Are you right to drive?” Ben takes the time to think about Hux’s question, rather than lashing out in anger at the question.

“Yeah.”

“Alright. Let’s lock up and then you can drive me home.” Ben looks down at where Hux is.

“I can, can I?” He asks, amusement causing the corners of his mouth to tilt upwards, the slightest bit.

“I’m certainly not walking.” Ben allows Hux to tug him out of the already locked up bar and into the back room. The light is blinding, when they open the door, and both of them hiss in displeasure. Hux flicks off the light, and Ben walks to the locker by the light of the neon sign. Ben grabs his things, and Hux pulls on his coat on while he waits for Ben to lumber to the door. He activates the security system as Hux steps out into the alley, and then pulls the door shut behind him.

Before Ben can get more than a step, Hux has grabbed his hand. Holds it, twining their fingers together. There’s more light in the alley than there had been in the bar, and the back room after they turned the light off. Hux seems nervous, Ben notices as the other man opens his mouth.

“Is this… alright?” He swings their joined hands a bit, as though Ben could possibly misunderstand what he was talking about. He’s a bit annoyed that Hux thinks he needs to be coddled like a child, but he’s also capable of appreciating the sentiment behind something, so he just nods.

“Good. I mean, yes, well. Lead on, Kylo.” Ben rolls his eyes, and tugs Hux towards his car. They don’t speak again, even when Hux puts his address into Ben’s phone for his gps to direct them. The radio’s on low volume, so it’s not a deathly silent trip. Ben doesn’t find it awkward, like he might if he were driving another person home. If it wasn’t Hux seated next to him, equally as comfortable with silence.

Ben likes that Hux has no interest in what he has to say, because it means he doesn’t have to worry about making small talk, or thinking of something to say. Or, Hux used to have no interest in what Ben had to say. But they’ve been talking, recently. Like they care about what’s happening in the others life. Ben wants to blame Hux for that, but he thinks maybe he’s the one who started it.

He pulls up outside Hux’s place. It’s an old brownstone, and Ben wonders if Hux lives there all on his own, or if it’s been converted into apartments. After a moment where neither of them move, Ben kills the engine. He licks his lips in preparation of saying something, when Hux beats him to it.

“I’d like to see you again.” Ben turns his head to look at Hux, who’s staring stubbornly through the windscreen.

“You will?” Ben thought that would have been pretty obvious. Hux sighs, whacking his head against the seat behind him a few times, before undoing his seatbelt and turning to face Ben fully.

“Kylo. I…” He trails off, and then leans over and draws Ben into a kiss. Ben feels his heart trip, and throws himself fully into the kiss. He opens his mouth for Hux without waiting for the other man’s tongue to trace along his lips, and tries not to let the way his mouth is trying to smile interfere with the kiss. Hux licks his way into Ben’s mouth as his hands come up to cradle Ben’s jaw, and his thumbs caress the soft skin of Ben’s cheeks. Hux pulls back before the kiss can become too draw out and looks Ben straight in his dark, dark eyes.

“I want to date you.” For a moment, Ben doesn’t react. He’s waiting for the punchline, or Hux to keep talking, or a ‘but.’ Anything that would invalidate what the red haired man had just said.

“What?” Ben asks, when it becomes apparent that Hux isn’t going to say anything else. That he is, in fact, waiting for a response. Hux untangles himself from Ben, shakes his head with a sigh as he leans back into his seat.

“I’d like to date you. If you’re comfortable with that. I understand if you’re not. I’ll leave you to think about it.” Ben knows his mouth is hanging open, but he’s shocked enough that he doesn’t bother to close it. He doesn’t understand it - _why_ would Hux want to date him? Where had this curveball even come from?

Hux shakes his head again, and reaches for the door handle.

“Drive safe, Kylo.” And then the door’s shutting behind him, and he’s disappearing inside the brownstone, and Ben’s still sitting in his car with the taste of Hux on his tongue and absolute chaos in his mind.

 

 

Ben’s not rostered on the next day - later the same day, technically, and he’s glad about it. After he’d arrived home, he’d laid in bed but hadn’t slept. Instead he’d gone around in circles in his mind, trying to figure out why Hux wanted to date him. Why he even wanted to fuck him. Sure, he’d said he found Ben attractive, but you didn’t need to put your dick in everything you found aesthetically pleasing. Dining out would be a whole lot more awkward, if you did.

Surely it’s been long enough now that Hux knows how fucked up Ben is. What could possibly entice him into thinking a relationship with Ben would be a good idea. It’s not like he’s rich, or has any possibility of upward mobility, or is someone you want to introduce to your family. He’s a mess. He’s unstable and easily angered and no one Hux should have ever given a second look at.

Maybe Hux is trying to piss off his family, or an ex. Ben would be good at that, he thinks. Maybe too much good sex has addled Hux’s brain into thinking Ben’s dateable. Maybe he’s been thinking about this too long and needs a break.

It’s still dark outside, but his phone tells him it’s late enough that Rey’ll be working. He rolls out of bed and doesn’t have to worry about pulling on clothes, because he never undressed. He trudges through the pre-dawn darkness and arrives at the cafe before he freezes completely. Rey looks up when he enters and smiles at him, though it dims slightly when they get a good look at his face after he throws his hood back.

“What’s up Kylo?” They ask, already starting to prepare his coffee. He slouches against the counter and watches as they scribble something onto the take away cup. It’s probably something cheerful. If so, it’ll likely end up with the others. He’s got so half his clothes stacked on top of his dresser instead of in it because he’s started a cup draw. He’s got most of the cups Rey’s written or drawn on since they started talking. There are smiley faces, an oblong squiggle inside of a pair of wings Rey called a dragon, a round blob labelled BB-8 which looks nothing like the photo Finn had shown him, jokes, puns, and all manner of things which never fail to make him smile.

“I… a guy asked me out.” Rey looks up, looking stunned. They wilt slightly, before smiling harder than ever, though it doesn’t quite reach their eyes.

“That’s great!” They chirp, and Ben shrugs.

“It’s… not great?” They suggest, cautiously, pouring his coffee into the cup. Ben slides the money across the counter, and Rey slides the coffee. On the side they’ve written ‘ _Cheer up, buttercup_ ’ along with a wonkily drawn buttercup. He smiles half heartedly at it. The flower reminds him of Hux.

“I just don’t understand. Why would he want to date me? I’m a mess and he’s… not. He’s pretty great, actually. Not that I'd ever tell him that.” Rey nods slowly.

“Did you say yes? If he’s pretty great.” Ben shakes his head.

“I didn’t say anything. He told me to think about it. That’s what I’ve done all night. I still don’t understand why he wants to date me.”

“Normally I’d send you to Finn for relationship advice, but obviously that’s not possible here. So I’m going to do my best.” The brace themselves on the counter, and look Ben straight in his eyes. He’s confused as to why he can’t go to Finn for advice, but decides to not question Rey on it, and just listen to their advice.

“Stop thinking about what he’s going to get out of the possible relationship or not, or why he wants to date you. You just have to think of one thing.”

“What’s that, Rey?”

“Do you want to date him?” Ben opens his mouth to answer, but the ‘no’ he’d assumed he’d say never comes out.

“Once you figure that out, you’ll be good to go. Sometimes relationships don’t work out or go the way you want them to, but that shouldn’t stop you from trying.” They tell him firmly, and Ben clutches his coffee closer to his chest. He thinks it over for a moment before nodding.

“Thanks Rey, that’s… actually really helpful.” Rey gives him a winning smile.

“Great. Get the fuck out of my shop.” They tell him, still grinning, and Ben rolls his eyes, taking his first sip of too hot coffee.

“See you tomorrow.” He says on his way out. The walk home doesn’t take any longer than the walk to the shop, but his mind’s spinning in an entirely different direction. Does he want to date Hux? The honest answer is he doesn’t know. He closes his apartment door behind himself, and goes to sit on the lounge, nursing his coffee until it goes cold and every mouthful tastes like shit.

Eventually Ben has to admit the truth: if he wants to get anywhere, he’s going to need some outside help. And there’s only one person that Ben knows who’d be able to help him with this particular problem.

 

 

“You know you’re not working today, right Kylo?” Finn asks when Ben walks into the bar, about ten minutes after it opens. Nines gives him a wave and Ben waves back, before settling on a bar stool in front of Finn.

“I know, but I’ve got a problem only you can solve.” Finn raises his eyebrows, before motioning for Ben to continue.

“Hux said he wanted to date me. If I wanted to. I don’t know if I want to.” Ben says, sentences stilted as he tries to let Finn know what’s going on.

“Okay. Let’s start with the basics. Do you like him?”

“Yes.”

“And I know you like being, uh, intimate with him. I am very aware of that. What do you feel, when the pair of you are ruining the innocence of the back room?”

“Finn, if you think Hux and I are the first people to fuck in that room, you are sadly mistaken.” Finn gives him an unimpressed look, but doesn’t say anything as he waits for Ben to answer the question.

“I feel good. I like the way we fit together. And I told you about when we fucked at my place, how good that was. About the cuddling.” He might have had a lot to say on the time he’d spent curled up in bed with Hux, and Finn might have spent an entire shift listening to it.

“And my knees go weak when we kiss, sometimes.” Ben mumbles, hunching over until his shoulders are near his ears. Finn grins, then.

“That seems like a big tick in the yes column. So, why don’t you want to date him?”

“Because-” Ben remembers what Rey said, about not thinking about what the other person would or wouldn’t get out of the relationship, and focus on himself. He does that, thinks about the reasons he wouldn’t like to date Hux.

“Because he’s an asshole.”

“So are you.” Finn shoots back with a smile, and Ben shrugs his agreement. It was true.

“Any other reasons?” Ben thinks for a good few minutes, before eventually shaking his head. Everything revolves around why Hux would want to date him, reasons for Hux to reconsider his clearly ill thought out plan. Ben has no problem with the thought of holding - oh, he’s an idiot. Hux had held his hand because he wanted to date him, not because of anything else. What else has he missed? Has it been obvious to everyone but Ben that Hux wanted to date him?

“No.” Ben says, distracted by his thoughts. Finn whacks his hand against the counter, drawing Ben’s attention.

“Then there’s only one question left, Kylo I Have Literally Never Seen Your Last Name Anywhere.” Ben raises an eyebrow at his friend, rolling his eyes when Finn doesn’t continue automatically. He’s waiting for Ben to interact with his theatrics, first.

“What’s that?”

“Do you ‘ _like_ ’ like him?” Why is Ben even surprised?

“You’re actually five.” He tells Finn, who laughs but shakes his head.

“Seriously Kylo. I could word it differently but it would still boil down to the same thing. Do you like Hux as more than a friend - sorry, as more than someone you’re friendly with, I know you protest to calling him your friend. Do you like him as more than a fuck buddy. Do you want to hold his hand in public and go for dinner with him and kiss him whenever you want and make breakfast together and one day merge your dvd collections together?”

 _Yes_. It’s the first thought he has, unlike this morning when Rey had asked him essentially the same question. Their question had spurred Ben to think seriously about his own feelings, about the way he felt when he was with Hux. Finn’s question gave hi the answer.

“Yes. I, yes.”

“Good, go tell him.” Ben nods and stands to do just that, before sinking back onto the stool.

“I don’t have his number. I have his address but showing up unannounced would be creepy.”

“Yes it would. I, actually, I have an idea. It is a great idea.” Finn fishes his phone from his pocket and Ben watches him fire off a text. He gets a response, almost instantly, and replies at the same speed. Three minutes later Finn’s shoving his phone back into his pocket and is grinning like he’s won the lottery.

“You, my friend, are coming with me to dinner at Poe’s tonight. You, me, Poe and Rey.”

“What.”

“Just trust me.” And Ben does, because Finn’s one half of his friend team. Which is how, hours later, Ben pulls up outside the bar and waits for Finn. He’s freshly showered and nicely dressed and ready to endure an awkward dinner with his barista who he’s friendly but not friends with, a man he’s only met once, and Finn. The only thing Ben hadn’t been able to comply with was the ‘ _have a nap and stop thinking about it_ ’ suggestion. When his friend climbs into the car, he’s no longer in his work outfit. The dinner had clearly not been a spur of the moment idea.

“I already knew I was going to be the awkward fourth wheel tonight, but I’m only just now realising that I’m crashing a not date.” Finn waves him off.

“Don’t worry about it. Okay straight ahead and then take the third left.” Finn directs and Ben pulls out into traffic.

“I can just put the address into my phone.” He says, just in case Finn’s somehow unaware of it.

“I like giving directions. After this left take the-”

“I haven’t even taken the first left yet. We haven’t even gone past the second street on the left yet.”

“Sorry. Are you allergic to anything, by the way? I assumed you weren’t because I’ve seen you eat a wide variety of things and you never seem worried about what’s in something, but I probably should have checked first.”

“I don’t have any allergies or intolerances.” Ben says, a slight flush settling over his cheeks as he remember the last time he’d said those exact words.

“I do not even want to know why you’re blushing right now, man. Take this left coming up then straight until I tell you. I hope you like guatemalan food. Poe’s cooking, so you know it’s going to be great.” Ben nods along as Finn talks and directs, listening and occasionally saying something. It’s about the usual for their conversations. Time passes quickly, as it always seems to do when he’s with Finn, and it doesn’t feel like long before he’s telling Ben to find a park.

“Right out the front.” Finn compliments, before getting out of the car. Ben follows, locks the car, and freezes when he looks up at the brownstone Finn’s standing in front of. He’s only seen the place once, and it was dark last night, but he’s pretty sure it’s the same building as Hux had disappeared to last night. The mischievous grin on Finn’s face pretty much confirms it.

“Finn what the fuck.” Finn presses a buzzer by the door, and Ben sprints round the car and up the stairs, more than willing to bodily haul his friend away before he can talk to Hux. It’s a move based more on instinctual panic rather than any conscious thoughts, but he does it anyway. He’s got a laughing Finn in a loose headlock when a voice responds. It’s not Hux, and Ben relaxes, though he doesn’t let go of Finn.

“Is that you, buddy?”

“Hey Poe, buzz us up please.” There’s an unfortunate sounding buzz sound and then a click, and Finn pushes the door open. Ben has to let him go in order for them both to move through the door, and Finn laughs his way up three flights of stairs. He says about a million variations of ‘ _you’re face,’_ and ‘ _priceless_.’ Eventually they get to the fourth floor of the building, and Finn knocks on the door, which is swiftly pulled open by the man Ben recognises as Poe.

“Finn!” He greets, looking exactly as love sick as Finn does.

“Poe!” It might be a touching reunion scene if Ben wasn’t aware of the fact that they’d seen each other yesterday.

“Come in, come in. Rey’s already here. Dinner won’t be ready for a few hours, but there are snacks and drinks, feel free to help yourself.” He directs the last part at Ben, who’s clearly uncomfortable. Ben settles himself on the edge of one of the lounge chairs as the three love birds immediately start to gravitate around each other. Ben looks around the room while they chat, and notices large speakers turned face down on the floor. Ben can’t hear anything, but they’re shuddering slightly. He concentrates for a moment, and decides he can even feel slight vibrations through his shoes.

Surprisingly, it only lasts for about five minutes before Finn turns his attention away from his loves and back to Ben. At the sound of his name, Ben looks up from his phone.

“So, here’s the plan Kylo. Since it’s obviously creepy if you turn up unannounced at his apartment, you can’t do that. Conveniently visiting friends who live in the same building as him, however, is fine.” Poe and Rey look just as confused as Ben feels.

“Hux lives directly under Poe.” Poe blinks, like he didn’t even know that.

“Wait, your guy is Hux?” He looks a bit shocked, while Finn nods enthusiastically.

“Yeah, I couldn’t believe it when I saw him at the bar and realised that that’s who Kylo meant. Anyway, the point is, we know exactly how to antagonise him so he comes storming up here demanding we stop it. When he comes up you can act surprised to see him, and talk to him then. Maybe get his number.” From the way Finn had said it, Ben’s sure that Hux marching up the stairs to verbally flay any combination of Finn, Rey and Poe was not a one off occurrence.

“This sounds complicated. You do realise that I could have just asked Phasma for his number.”

“I did not think of that. And it’s too late now, anyway. Poe and Rey have been making a racket and stomping up and down since I texted them just before I got in the car with you.” Ben watches Finn for a moment, completely at a loss for words.

“Finn, no wonder you’re still single. You’re as bad at dating advice as I am.” Ben says it with a wry twist to his lips, and he knows Finn gets it when he starts to chuckle. Poe and Rey don’t seem to get to joke, and both of them shoot to their feet.

“That is just- cruel!” Poe says, louder than usual.

“You jackass!” Rey shouts at him. Ben can feel his eyes go wide with surprise, and a glance at Finn shows the other man’s just as surprised as he in. Maybe it’s part of their plan to annoy Hux into showing his face? Finn hesitantly gets up as well, but Ben stays seated for now.

“I can’t believe I drew a dragon on your coffee!” They continue to shout and, behind them, Finn shrugs. Then mouths ‘roll with it.’ Maybe it actually is all part of the plan? This entire situation is far, far out of Ben’s comfort zone already, so he’s got less than a clue.

“You never drew a dragon on my coffee.” Ben tells them, speaking slightly louder than normal. Rey scowls and puffs up. Behind them, Finn scrambles backwards and shakes his head, wide eyed.

“I tried my best you jerk. I can’t believe Finn likes you.”

“Well neither can I!” Ben shouts back.

“Oh my god _you know_!” Rey and Poe shout at the same time. Ben stands up, eyes flicking to the door. He’s pretty sure he could make it before his late afternoon got any weirder.

“Yes?” It comes out as more of a question, but he shouts it anyway.

“And you’re still making Finn help you with Hux?” Rey demands, yelling still. Finn looks less alarmed now, though no less confused. Ben guesses that whatever landmine he’d almost stepped on had been avoided.

“He volunteered!” Ben hasn’t shouted properly in a good, long while. He hasn’t had any occasion to. Now doesn’t really feel like the right occasion for it either, but Rey’s yelling, and Finn seems vaguely encouraging, so he goes for it.

“That doesn’t mean you have to accept!” Ben’s starting to think that Rey and Poe aren’t acting at all. Ben’s been around his fare share of angry people, and Poe and Rey fit the bill. The longer this goes on, the less he thinks they’re play acting in order to annoy Hux. He doesn’t know what they’re angry at him for, but he must have fucked up, badly, for people he doesn’t know to be this mad.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s hurting him!” Finn’s quiet ‘ _what_ ’ is eclipsed by Ben’s alarmed shout of,

“ _What the hell are you talking about!?_ ”

“Because he’s in love with you!” In the silence that falls after Rey’s yell, they glare fiercly at Ben, as does Poe, while Finn looks completely bewildered. Ben, too, is unsure what’s happening. Poe opens his mouth, probably to pick up where Rey left off - hopefully to explain what the hell’s going on. Before more than the word ‘and’ can leave his mouth, there’s a series of quick, sharp, _loud_ knocks on the front door.

Finn leaps up and runs to the door, throwing it open and exposing Hux to the entire scene. His face does an odd thing when he sees Ben, before it settles into an angry-neutral expression.

“I believe I’ve warned you several-”

“Hux! Great to see you! Kylo, look, Hux!” Ben crooks a smile at Hux, who sort of smiles in return, before he turns his attention back to the still angry Poe and Rey.

“What do you mean Finn’s in love with me?” He asks it at a normal volume, hoping that they’ll respond in kind. They do.

“We mean he’s in love with you. And you just said you know, but you’re letting him help you get with someone else anyway. That’s low, Kylo.” Poe says, sounding angry and disappointed all at once. He’s going to be a great parent, clearly. After a second, wherein Ben’s brain tries to assimilate this new world view, he laughs. It’s the wild, unchecked, loud laughter he very rarely experiences, and he’s half bent over from the force of it.

Poe and Rey frown harder at him, but Ben ignores it. Over by the doorway, Hux starts to snigger as well. Ben laughs for a good few minutes. Every time he thinks of stopping, he looks at Poe and Rey again and the amusement hits him again. The pair of them look distinctly unimpressed by the time Ben wipes the tears from his eyes.

“Finn, tell them. Please.” Finn’s eyes are too wide, and he looks peaky.

“I can’t.” He hisses, and Ben rolls his eyes. He has officially had enough of the Poe-Rey-Finn unrequited-requited love triangle. Especially since he’s been dragged into it. Honestly; who in their right mind would look at the four of them and decide that it was _Ben_ that Finn was in love with. This is what happens when people keep secrets, Ben supposes.

“Poe, Rey-” Ben starts, only to be cut off by Finn.

“I love you. Both of you. Not Kylo. I’m completely in love with you. I’ve been trying to think of ways to tell you for… years.” Finn shrugs, but he looks better. Relieved. Like it feels good to let it out.

“I’m not saying this because I want anything from you, I don’t want to ruin your relationship or our friendship. Nothing has to change. I’ve been coming to terms with the fact that you don’t love me like that and it’s fine.” Ben looks over at Hux and they both roll their eyes. “But now you know. Poe, Rey, I love you both.” He doesn’t smile, but Ben knows it’s just a matter of time. He picks up his jacket and starts to inch towards to door.

It takes a few moments, but then Rey and Poe break out in the largest, happiest smiles Ben’s ever seen outside of wedding pictures.

“ _I love you. We love you. We’re in love with you._ ” Poe and Rey both talk at the same time, and it’s kind of hard to make out all the words, but that’s the gist of it. Finn looks like he might faint, so Ben pushes his back as he walks past, sending him into the waiting, loving arms of his Sunshine and Buttercup. It’s sickeningly sweet, and Ben’s smiling as he pulls the door closed.

Then he’s in the hallway with Hux. Alone.

“Would you believe me if I told you that my being here was just a convoluted plot on Finn’s behalf to have me ‘coincidentally’ run into you.”

“After that scene I really think I would.” They stare at each other for a while before Hux licks his lips nervously and continues.

“Did you want to run into me?”

“Yes. Turns out I don’t have your number.”

“We can fix that.” Hux says, and Ben nods. Hux jerks his head in the direction of the stairwell and takes a step towards it before Ben pulls him back.

“I want to date you. If you haven’t changed your mind.” Hux smiles, and Ben feels his heart skip a beat at the sight of it and, god, he really is an idiot. This isn’t the first time his heart’s done that around Hux, but it’s the first time he’s known what it meant. Hux’s eyes are green today, Ben notes as the red haired man pulls him down into a spine melting kiss.

“We need to talk about this.” Ben murmurs when they pull apart, unwilling to trust his voice with anything louder. He needs to let Hux know that he’s never been in a relationship, that he has severe problems with intimacy. He’s not sure if he’ll ever be able to sleep the night in Hux’s bed, with Hux next to him. He doesn’t own that many dvd’s to contribute to a combined dvd collection.

“We will. Later. But right now my apartment is less than a minute away and I’ve spent all morning fingering myself while thinking of you, and I want you to fuck me until I beg you to stop and then keep going." Hux's green, green eyes stare at Ben, and it almost feels like they're looking into him. Ben takes a breath and ignores the arousal coiling in his gut in order to verbalise what he's feeling, like Hux consistently urges.

"If you say no I'm going to stop, Hux. Straight away." Ben hopes his eyes look just as piercing to Hux, because this is something he's not willing to compromise on. If they're going to do this, if they're going to date, Hux needs to understand that.

"Alright. In that case, a revision. I want you to fuck me until I'm incoherent and unable to remember anything but the feeling of your cock inside of me, Kylo. And then, after you've come inside of me and I'm over-sensitive and twitching, I want you to eat me out until I scream." Ben's cock is suddenly rock hard and pressing insistently against his fly. Hux smirks at whatever look is on his face and grabs him by the hand, pulling him towards the stairs.

"I think I can manage that." 

**Author's Note:**

> There's a short sequel mostly written where in I tie up some loose ends. (By which I mean, I didn't finish this fic in time, so now there's a sequel.)
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Happy Kylux Big Bang Reveal Day!!


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